Intervention
by sydedalus
Summary: Epilogue is up, the fic is done! Very long HouseWilson friendship piece that takes place during and after the episode Detox. Gen but also a medical fic, buddy fic, hurt comfort fic, and hopefully a realistic fic. Finally FINISHED!
1. Part I: T Minus One Week

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** PG-13 except where otherwise noted. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, and medical realism/grossness.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox" and the rest of season 1 with some season 2 foreshadowing.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released in 2003. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**Author's Note:**

(New readers, **please read this first**.)

Welcome to my very long fic, Intervention. I began writing this fic when the promos for Detox aired in the first week of February 2005. I wrote most of the first part of the fic before June 2005. The second part took a year to write. So, part one tried to fill in some of House's background, which no one knew (we hadn't even heard the name 'Stacy' when Detox aired) until the end of season one, by which time much of this had already been completed. Hence the infarction story as we're told in "Three Stories" doesn't appear at all here – I wrote a different background entirely, as many fic writers were doing at the time. I tell you this because I don't want it to come as a surprise when you encounter this background in the first fifteen or so chapters here. I thought about going back and changing the fic to conform to what we now know but found that it was too tightly written for me to do that. I just wanted you to know this before you began reading.

Similarly, because the second part of the fic took over a year to write and during that year all of season 2 aired, I have had the great benefit of seeing what the writers have done with these characters in two seasons rather than having just one season of character development to work with. As a result, the second part is probably somewhat different. I hope the characters are in-character throughout—if not with the show, at least within this fic itself—but I wrote this, so I can't quite tell. This is my rather poor excuse for any continuity errors in character.

This was the first fan fic I'd ever written. Or, it was the first fan fic I'd ever written when I began writing it. Since then, I've started several other House fics, some finished, some not finished, and while I find certain of them to be better fics or more in character or more original or superior for some other reason, I love this one best because it was so hard to finish and because it was my first outing as a fic writer. I'd like to thank my friend Auditrix, also one of the first fic writers in the House fandom, who shepherded me through this and other fics, particularly when it came to the medical realism. I'd also like to thank the people who started reading it during the first season and for one reason or another, have kept reading it over the long year and a half it's taken to write. Without so much positive reinforcement, I wonder if I would have finished it at all.

I tried as hard as I could to make the medical jibber-jabber in this fic correct. I didn't always succeed, but I hope it's plausible. Given how often the medicine on the show itself is a little far-fetched, I hope you'll forgive me my trespasses. Also, because this started as a fill-in for "Detox," it makes use of a great deal of the dialogue from the show, which is quoted here at length. I make no claim to it; it isn't mine. It belongs to whoever wrote it and whoever owns the rights to it. So do the epigraphs.

Finally, I started this fic and all my other fics because the relationship between House and Wilson intrigues me. It's why I watch the show. It's always been why I watch the show. While I consider this fic to be a friendship only piece, you can read House/Wilson slash into it if you like. You can also read House/Cuddy, House/Cameron, House/Stacy, Wilson/Cuddy, and Wilson/Cameron into it. It's all present here if you tilt your head a certain way. I think of it fundamentally as an exploration of House and Wilson's stupid, screwed-up friendship, but that isn't how you have to think of it. ;)

All this said, I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it, as frustrating as it sometimes was. I have never enjoyed writing a fic more than I did this one. And now I'll shut up and let the characters do the talking for me.

Best,  
sy dedalus

* * *

**T-Minus One Week**

"So what? If I die, I die. It's a small loss for the world; and I myself am thoroughly bored...  
Why have I lived? For what end was I born? I suppose an end did exist, and I suppose I did have some lofty purpose...  
My love has brought no one happiness because I never sacrificed anything for those I loved; I loved for myself, for my own pleasure; I satisfied only my heart's strange demand, greedily swallowing their emotions, their tenderness, their joys and woes...  
Tomorrow I may die! And there will not be a single being left on earth who ever understood me completely. Some consider me worse, others better than I am. Some will say he was a good fellow; others, a scoundrel. And both will be wrong. After this, is it worth the trouble of living? Yet you keep living—out of curiosity. You're waiting for something new. It's amusing and annoying at once...  
There are two men in me: one lives in the full sense of the word; the other thinks and judges him. The first may in an hour say goodbye to you and the world forever, while the second...the second?..."

—Pechorin, _A Hero of Our Time_ by Mikhail Lermontov

Wilson paced in his office. It was something he did when he was chewing a thought around, when the vagaries of life chose to intervene in the sterile, easy world of symptoms/treatments, problems/solutions, questions/answers, where facts were privileged above all else and he wasn't authorized or expected to make difficult moral decisions. That was left to the patients and their families. Having to watch people agonize over a course of action every day remained heart-wrenching, but most of the time he was glad it wasn't him in the hot seat.

He'd been lucky in life so far: none of his wives had had any life-threatening illnesses and he had no children to worry over. Even his dog was in perfect health. His closest friend, however—a friend who had only himself to argue with when difficulties arose because most of the time he didn't choose to involve others—was not so lucky.

Years ago they'd made a tacit agreement and Wilson was listed as his next of kin, making him responsible. Right now that responsibility was weighing heavily on him. He was wearing a hole in the carpet in front of his desk.

House had come to him again today, dropping into a chair in front of Wilson's desk before Wilson had even acknowledged him.

"I'm out," he'd said.

"Already?" Wilson asked, annoyed and not a little worried.

"Well, no, I have a few left," House replied, "but they'll soon be gone and so here I am."

Wilson sighed. "I just wrote you a script last week," he said, frustrated.

House's drug intake had started escalating about a year ago. Either the pain was getting worse or he was taking them for another reason. Neither option was palatable. If it was the first, then something was going on with his leg that he was ignoring—Wilson fancied he'd know about it if House was seeing his doctor more often and since he didn't know about anything like that, he assumed House was ignoring it—and any number of bad things could happen. House wouldn't be the miserable person he was now if the pain hadn't been ignored when it first presented. But that hadn't been House's fault. And if it was the second, then House was using the drug recreationally which meant that he was addicted and that he had a serious problem. House didn't seem to want to acknowledge either one.

Wilson sighed again, inwardly this time.

House shrugged. "I had a party this weekend," he said. "Didn't you get the invitation I sent? Damn the postal service." He slammed his cane into the floor to emphasize his point. "You missed one kick ass shindig. Cuddy did a table dance."

Wilson stood, hands on his hips, unwilling to be drawn away from the subject. "You've already doubled your dosage since I started writing for you," he said.

House looked up at him and shrugged. "So sue me," he said. "My leg hurts."

"Has it gotten worse lately?" Wilson asked, trying not to let concern show openly on his face. House hated that.

House looked away, expelling an annoyed breath.

"I'm trying to understand why you're taking so much," Wilson said gently. "If the pain's worse, you should-"

"It's fine," House interrupted angrily. Seeing that Wilson was unimpressed, he added, "I get all my check-ups, all my shots. You wanna see my rabies tag or would you think it's a fake too?"

"House-"

"Go ask Masterson," House growled, frustrated. He'd didn't feel like being hassled right now. He couldn't take any fighting with Wilson. "I'm fine," he spat. _Butt the hell out_.

"Then why are you taking more?" Wilson challenged.

House looked away again. "Because it hurts," he said in a low, angry voice. "How many times do I have to say it?"

He didn't like admitting to pain. He hated it, in fact. Wilson knew that. So why was Wilson pushing him today? Jesus, it was wearing him out. He resisted the urge to pop a Vicodin into his mouth. He needed to stop feeling.

"There are other ways to manage pain," Wilson said, an angry edge in his voice now too.

House didn't say anything, didn't look at him.

Wilson took a breath. It was hard, what he was about to say. It could do so much damage. But it had to be said. And since no one else would say it, because there was no one else….

"I think you're addicted," he said quietly.

House sniffed. "I am not," he snarled, looking back up at Wilson.

Wilson looked down at him. "Then it won't hurt you to cut back," he said.

"Yes, it will, actually, hurt me," House said, getting exasperated. This conversation should've ended five minutes ago. "That's just what it'll do."

"You won't even try?" Wilson said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Why should I?" House said, throwing his hands in the air. "I come to work. I do my job. I do it well."

"No, you don't," Wilson said. "You piss people off. It's gotten worse."

House shrugged again, not taking him seriously. This was Wilson he was talking to, after all. Wasn't like it was Cuddy.

"So my bullshit tolerance level has dropped off lately," he said. "I come in everyday and fix people that no one else can fix. You can't expect me to be nice to them at the same time."

"The rest of us manage it," Wilson said, trying not to sound as angry, frustrated, and annoyed as he felt.

"So, what, you think that stopping my meds will make me _nicer_?" House said incredulously.

"I think they've changed your personality," Wilson said. "I think you should consider another form of pain management—one that doesn't involve narcotics."

"What are you, my doctor?" House said flippantly.

"No," Wilson said, "I'm you're friend."

"Great intervention," House said, rolling his eyes. "But where are my folks? Where's Cuddy? I can't believe she'd miss out on this."

"There's no one but me," Wilson said softly. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm touched," House replied, standing, "but really, you don't have to. I'm fine."

Wilson sighed to himself. This was going nowhere. He wrote the prescription and held it out to House.

"Just think about it, okay?" he said.

"Can do," House said and snatched the script.

Wilson sat down in his chair, defeated, and watched House leave. It was plain to everyone who worked closely with him that he had a problem. Whether that problem was addiction or something else, it was hard to say, but it was equally plain to those who'd known him long enough that he had changed. But he was House. He was impossible to talk to about personal matters. He'd never been very open, even before the infarction. And even if Wilson refused to write for him anymore, he'd just go to someone else. Refusal would also push him further away, making any attempt to get him to change harder than it already was.

He'd changed. He'd really changed. Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. What to do, what to do.

He used to revel in House's tales of debauchery. Even after the incident with his leg and the nasty break-up with Stacy, he'd taken a few girls out. Those relationships broke up pretty quickly, which wasn't really surprising. He was getting over an intense relationship and adjusting to the devastation of never being physically "normal" again, the mental pain as well as the physical pain. Wilson knew how that felt—the emotional and mental part of it, anyway. He remembered how torn up he'd been after his first marriage went sour, how difficult it had been to get back in the saddle. House was human; he needed time; Wilson recognized that. But time had passed, lots of time, and House had grown more and more unwilling to deal with anyone, much less pursue anything romantic. As far as he knew, House hadn't even _tried_ to date anyone in over three years. It wasn't just his leg. It couldn't be. In fact, he stayed in more in general. Wilson could understand that House felt a little old for the bar scene but he knew the man was no monk. So why was he celibate all of a sudden? Okay, Wilson knew he wasn't celibate, but certainly wasn't who he used to be either. The life he was leading now, it was hardly a life. Something had to change or... Wilson didn't want to think about the alternative. He knew where depression often ended. Soap operas wouldn't keep House afloat forever.

Wilson stopped pacing. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He would talk to Cuddy about it tomorrow, see what she thought. She'd been there too, and she cared about him no matter how much she tried to hide it. Maybe she'd have some ideas.

He sighed, sat down, and did an hour's worth of paperwork. In his head he was still pacing as he drove home, greeted Julie, ate dinner and watched a basketball game. He was still chewing the problem around as he lay down to sleep, his back turned to his wife, her back turned to him. He hoped he could think of something before it was too late.


	2. Day One: The Bet

**Title: **Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer**: These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Queens of the Stone Age, Hugh Laurie, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

* * *

**Day One: The Bet**

_A nice heart and a white suit and a baby blue sedan  
And I am doing the best that I can  
All the eunuchs, they were standing in rows  
singing, "Please stud us out just as fast as you possibly can."  
Sad song, last dance and no one knows who the band was  
And Henry, you danced like a wooden Indian  
Except this one mattered and I felt it had a spirit  
And I shot the story because I didn't hear it that way _

_And it's hard to be a human being  
And it's harder as anything else  
And I'm lonesome when you're around  
And I'm never lonesome when I'm by myself  
And I miss you when you're around _

—Modest Mouse, "Baby Blue Sedan"

A week passed.

House came back again. Wilson spared him the lecture but gave him a look that conveyed more than any words possibly could. House held his hands up in an 'ooo, I'm so scared' way and backed out of the room.

The next morning Wilson was waiting by Cuddy's office door, looking like a lost dog, when she arrived.

"Everything okay?" she asked, unlocking the door and inviting him in. It wasn't like him to have a problem big enough that he'd stake out her office.

"Sort of," he said, taking a seat while she put her bag down. "I'm worried about House."

She snorted. "He worries me, too, but in a different way I think," she said. "What did he do this time?"

"He's been coming to me more and more often for Vicodin scripts," Wilson said. "He's doing at least eighty milligrams a day by my count."

Cuddy's eyebrows shot up. She knew he'd been taking more, but she hadn't imagined it was that much. Suddenly House's behavior of late made sense.

Wilson continued, "It's been coming on for about a year now. Every time I talk to him about it he insists that nothing's wrong. He won't consider alternative treatments. And I think you've noticed that he's changed," he added.

"That's the understatement of the year," Cuddy said dryly. She offered Wilson some coffee. "But what do you want _me_ to do about it?" she asked.

"You've got control over him," Wilson said, getting up to get a cup of coffee.

Cuddy snorted. "I beg to differ," she said.

"I mean the clinic," he said, pouring the coffee.

"I see," she said, eyes narrowing.

"Yes," he said and their eyes met.

"He goes off his meds and I let him off clinic hours," she said smiling. "This…could work."

"It will. He hates the clinic more than he hates pain," he said. "And you know he won't back down from a chance to show you up."

"I must admit," she said mischievously, "I'm intrigued by this new deviant side you're showing, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson shrugged amiably. "It takes an evil genius to defeat an evil genius."

"And we'd know—more importantly, _he'd_ know—whether he really is addicted," Cuddy said.

"Exactly," Wilson replied.

"I'll bring it up as soon as possible," she said.

"Okay, but be sure to leave me out of it," he said.

"Of course," she agreed. "He'd never do it if he knew you were in on it. But I need you to keep an eye on him for me."

"Yes, of course." He got up to leave.

"Dr. Wilson," she said, "you've just made my day."

"A little early for that, don't you think?" he said, smiling.

"It never hurts to get things done early," he heard as he walked out the door.

Cuddy smiled to herself. Finally, Wilson had come to her. She was thoroughly sick of getting complaints about House's habit of pill-popping in front of patients and of his attitude and personally very worried about the husk of a person he'd become. But maybe they could change that. Her smile grew wider as she settled in to begin the day.

* * *

It was laundry day for House. Well, no, _yesterday_ was laundry day but he'd been so pre-occupied by a Valentine's Day run of awful made-for-TV movies on Lifetime that he just couldn't tear himself away from the television. And besides, it was icy and cold outside. Not exactly ideal weather for a fellow with a bum leg and a laundry basket. He ended up with a few old shirts that were entirely too bright or too wrong for him: one a pale pink (pink! _pink_! he didn't remember buying it), another too light a shade of green (he remembered buying it but not why he bought it), a bright red one (a gift from a very old girlfriend who said he looked good in red), and a black one that didn't go with his jacket. He ended up choosing the red one to match his fiery disposition. It turned out to be a good choice, because right now he was livid.

The Vicodin he'd had with breakfast had already worn off and the idiot clerk at the dispensary had misplaced an entire shipment of the drug. An _entire_ shipment.

"You're out?" he said in disbelief. "You can't be out. This is a hospital. _Why_ are you out?"

The clerk tried to remain polite and made a phone call.

Then Cameron came up to him yammering about something unimportant. Didn't she understand that _nothing_ was more important than a certain little white pill at that moment?

He spotted Cuddy. "Your hospital doesn't have my pain medication," he called.

Cameron started yapping again. He really couldn't be bothered right now and he certainly couldn't wait an hour for a bunch of lunkheads to get their act together.

Cuddy saw her opportunity immediately. But some of the things Cameron had been saying caught her attention. She looked at the file. House was being even more stubborn than usual. The strange facts of the case finally got his attention as well and she saw the look in his eye that meant that his mind had taken over, that his body had become secondary. Well, that was why she'd hired him. She'd wait until he came back down in an hour.

* * *

There were days when House couldn't believe that anyone on his staff had made it through med school. There were also days when one of them made the sort of leap he made all the time and for a moment he felt a modicum of respect for that person. Usually it was Foreman and usually he fought any feeling of respect down before it could properly surface.

Today was neither one of those days.

Today someone had screwed up big time and he could only devote a certain portion of his brain to the diagnoses his minions were tossing out left and right.

His body was tense with anticipation. He was sweating. He couldn't stop looking at his watch. His leg was _not_ happy and kept complaining loudly. It was such a bitch sometimes—well, most of the time, really. He checked his watch again and drummed his fingers against his leg.

11:00. Chase was reciting something out of a medical book.

11:03. Foreman was saying something. Drugs, probably.

11:07. Cameron was saying something else.

11:10. Now he was saying something.

11:14. Something else was said by someone.

11:15. He said something and was out the door.

The elevator didn't move fast enough.

People kept stopping to get off and on. _Idiots!_

He longed to dash down the stairs.

The elevator stopped on his floor and he nearly tripped over a little old lady in his rush to the pharmacy.

Cuddy saw him again. Right on time. He was badgering the pharmacist again. She watched him dry-swallow a pill and stand still for a moment looking content. Placebo effect. She excused herself and went after him before he got away.

"You know," she said, stopping him as he tried to leave, "there are other ways to manage pain."

"Like what, laughter?" he said, eyebrows wagging. "Meditation? Got a guy who can fix my third chakra?"

"You're addicted," she accused.

Where had he heard this before? Had Cuddy and Wilson been plotting behind his back? If so, well, whatever. He had a pill dissolving in his stomach and he felt fine.

He limped down the hallway with her. "If the pills ran my life I'd agree with you," he said, "but it's my leg that's busy calendaring what I can't do."

"You're in denial," she said.

"Right," he said sarcastically, "I never had an infarction. No dead muscle. No nerve damage. Doesn't even hurt. Actually it kind of tickles. And chicks dig this," he said holding up his cane. "Better than a puppy."

"It's not just your leg," she said. "You want to get high. You're doing, what, 80 milligrams a day?"

"Oh, that's way too much," he said disapprovingly. "Moderation is the key. Unless there's pain." Now if she would kindly bugger off…

"It's double what you were taking when I hired you," she said.

"Cause you're twice as annoying," he muttered. Not _this _again. Wilson had squealed; he was so gonna pay.

"I can't always be here to protect you," she said. "Patients talk. Doctors talk."

Would nothing get her to go away?

"About how big your ass has gotten lately?" he said. "Not me, I defend it. You got back."

Cuddy glared at him as people in the elevator noticeably regarded her ass. He put on an innocent face as if to say, 'who? me?'

They stepped off the elevator when it reached the fourth floor.

"You can't go a week without the drugs," Cuddy challenged.

"No, I don't wanna go a week without the drugs," House countered. "It'll hurt."

"No, you _can't_," she said. "If you're just getting off pain medication, it will hurt, you won't be having a great time, but you'll make it. If you're detoxing, you'll have chills, nausea, the pain will magnify five, ten times. You won't make it."

The pill was dissolving in his stomach and entering his bloodstream. He could feel it. Wonderful.

"Well, I guess we'll never know," he said, turning to go into his office.

"I'll give you a week off clinic duty if you go a week without narcotics," she said quickly.

He perked up inwardly at the notion but sensed she'd go farther than one measly week. She wanted this. He could tell. It was disturbing how much she wanted this. She'd _definitely_ go further than a week.

"No way," he said. "I love the clinic."

She would get him. By hook or crook, she would get him.

"You love the pills," she said. "Two weeks."

Yes! But maybe he could get a little more out of her.

"They don't make me high," he said. "They make me neutral."

"A month," she said.

House considered it. Push any further and it might disappear. He fished the newly-filled bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to her.

"You're on, mister," he said going into his office.

Cuddy smiled, clutching the bottle, and left.

Now that he could concentrate properly, he reviewed what the kids had said earlier and remembered he needed to scare up Wilson for a biopsy. It was nearly noon. He'd just sit back for a few minutes first and enjoy the bliss of relief. He could catch Wilson at lunch. He tried not to think about the rest of the day.

* * *

Wilson was intrigued by the case and agreed to arrange the biopsy for that afternoon. It was nice to have an oncologist so readily available for consults.

"But you don't think it's cancer," Wilson said.

"Could be," said House. "Gotta cover all the bases."

"Lupus is more likely," Wilson said.

House looked with mock confusion into space. "Who's the diagnostician here?" he said. "I forget."

"What?" Wilson said. "Suddenly you don't welcome recommendations?"

House snorted and said nothing.

They chewed in silence for a few minutes.

"How are things with the nurse?" House asked. "It's still the same one, right? What was her name again?"

"Over," Wilson said. "She had some silly two month rule about dating married guys."

"Too bad," House said, munching on his reuben. "I was really starting to like her. Whatever her name was. Nice legs."

"Yeah, well…" Wilson trailed off, having no where to go. He speared a tomato with his fork.

"You should be careful about sticking your pen in the company ink too often," House said sagely. "Don't know who's been in there. Someone with cooties probably."

"Maybe you should give the company ink a try," Wilson said suggestively.

"What?" House replied. "And sully my shining reputation?"

Wilson shrugged. "I'm just saying that it's been a while," he said.

"Yeah, well, I've been busy playing babysitter to a gaggle of med students recently," House said.

"Med students?" Wilson said hopefully.

"Back off," House said. "Now I _know_ they all had cooties. More cooties than brains anyway. And why have a med student when you can have a nurse?"

"Because med students don't have two month rules," Wilson said.

"But they are kind of forbidden," House pointed out. "Ethics. Though I'm sure you won't let that stop you."

"It never has before," Wilson said with a furtive smile.

"That's the spirit," House said. "What fun are wives if you don't get to cheat on them?"

For a moment Wilson felt guilty.

"She's sleeping around again too," he said.

"You two are such a pair," House said. "Staying together for tax purposes or just don't want to pay the lawyer anymore?"

"Neither," Wilson replied. "The house has gotten so big that it'd be a major pain to split our stuff. And she might take the dog. I kind of like him."

"I didn't know you had a dog," House said.

"I am a man of mystery," Wilson said.

"Right," House said, standing to go. "Well, go use your mysterious magical powers on that kid before he bleeds out, O Mysterious One."

"Okay," Wilson said laughing. "Let me know if you need any attractive young med students taken off your hands."

"Sure thing, Killer," House said as he walked away.

Wilson sat for a while, smiling to himself. House seemed better today.


	3. Day One: Wheel of Fortune

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Day One: Wheel of Fortune**

"Today the restaurant was filled with warmth, a spirit of caring. The food was just right and the service was prompt. For the first time this season, snow began to fall. Parents laughed with their children. Handsome employees made witty—but not inconsiderate—remarks. Retired couples were given Extra Value coupons. I felt like getting fucked up and watching t.v. forever."

—Joe Wenderoth, "November 14, 1996," _Letters to Wendy's_

House passed the afternoon quietly in his office, examining lab results when they came in, pleased that he wouldn't be visiting the clinic for a long time. Anticipating the kind of night he'd have, he called around and arranged for his laundry to be done. Which was fine with him. Laundry was a waste of time.

By three he could feel the Vicodin beginning to wear off.

More lab results came in and with each one his mind spun off in ten directions at once. He loved this part of his life best. The case was so complex and each lab result narrowed the possible set of solutions. That was when he started thinking outside the possible sets of solutions. Yes, this was what he liked best: when his mind was forced to run on all cylinders. It was the only time he ever really forgot his condition, the monotony of his life, the daily push and pull of having to get up and feed himself, entertain himself, do the grocery shopping, pay the bills. Boredom, he was convinced, was life-threatening. So he lived for cases like this one. For the first few years after his leg got screwed up he was too ill to work and too depressed to really try.

The gnawing ache of unmediated pain began to grow as the five o'clock hour approached and a tiny, desperate corner of his brain recalled those years after his injury with immense fear. Lab results. He tried to concentrate on lab results. He could do this.

By six the lab results had stopped trickling in and he needed to lie down and have a drink pretty badly.

He stopped at a drug store on the way home and bought a gigantic bottle of Tylenol. The cold worked its way into his leg as the bus bounced along. He couldn't drive with his leg locked in the grip of pain—he felt he was doing well as it was keeping down yelps every time the bus driver drove over a pothole; trying to drive would really be pushing it.

His leg was aching mercilessly by the time he got home.

Two Tylenol and a generous glass of scotch later, he lay on his couch watching Wheel of Fortune and calculating how many years his liver would last if this were to become his life. Probably longer than Pat Sajak's would. Vanna was wearing a particularly revealing dress and he watched her sashay across the stage dinging letters so morons could spin the wheel again. He thought of Wilson for some reason. When did he get a dog?

He wasn't hungry but made himself eat anyway. Some frozen crap.

So this was his life: microwave dinners, replacing narcs with liquor, nursing a wasted appendage, unable to get even half a stack when Vanna's boobs jiggled as she clapped.

Profoundly uninterested.

Even the case.

His mind had run over every available nook and cranny. He had several plans of action depending on the labs that came back tomorrow. Preparation was over and he didn't have anything else to do with the billions of neurons so anxious to fire. He took another drink to slow them down. He wasn't messing around tonight: the bottle and a fresh glass of ice waited on the table next to him.

He'd just finished off another glass and poured a fresh one when he heard a knock at the door. _Damned Jehovah's Witnesses_, he thought and stayed where he was. The knocking became more insistent and he heard Wilson's voice through the door. _Okay, okay_. He got up and opened the door.

Wilson stood there looking slightly disheveled.

"Julie kick you out again?" House asked.

"Yeah," Wilson said too quickly and with the wrong expression.

House's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "No, she didn't."

"Okay," Wilson sighed. "I tried to pick this girl up and she hit me."

"You got hit by a girl?" House asked.

"It was more of a slap really," Wilson said distractedly. "Look, can I come in or what?"

House stepped aside to let Wilson in. He sensed that something still wasn't right—Wilson's excuse was unusually lame—but he couldn't pin it down.

Wilson took off his coat and scarf, surreptitiously watching House limp heavily across the room and carefully settle himself down on the couch.

"Want a drink?" House called.

"Yeah," Wilson replied.

"Grab a glass."

Wilson filled his glass and chose a chair next to the couch. Jeopardy! was on in the background.

"What was her name?" House asked. "The girl who slapped you?"

"Didn't catch it," Wilson said.

"No, you didn't, because there is no girl," House accused, not taking his eyes off the TV.

Wilson sighed. "No, there's no girl."

"If it were something about the kid you'd have paged me," he said. "So what is it..." he asked himself.

Wilson didn't say anything, feeling embarrassed. "I can't stop by and say hello?"

House ignored him, running over the possible explanations for a spontaneous visit. It took him a few seconds: he was a little drunk and very much in pain.

"Oh," House said. "You've been talking to Cuddy."

Wilson avoided House's gaze, looking into his drink. "Yeah."

"So, what? You're here to check up on me?" House snorted. "You're wasting your time. I'm fine. Go get yourself slapped by a girl before the herd is culled tonight."

"I figure I've got at least another hour before the best ones show up," Wilson said.

"Fair enough," House replied.

Both relaxed. Neither wanted to push the other too far for fear he'd get pushed back and tumble over the precipice he was so delicately toeing.

"How's Keith?" Wilson asked when Jeopardy! went to commercial.

"Who?" House asked.

"The kid," Wilson qualified.

"Oh, him," House said. "He's not dead yet if that's what you mean."

"No, that wasn't what I meant," Wilson said.

"In that case, I don't know," House said. "Probably wishing he were boning his girlfriend right now instead of...whatever it is he's doing."

"Who said you weren't compassionate," Wilson said smiling.

"You did, I think," House said.

"Oh yeah," Wilson said. "I guess anything is possible."

The sat in silence again for a little while, eyes on the television, neither really registering what flashed across the screen.

"So..." Wilson ventured tentatively, "How's the leg?"

House stiffened. "Still attached," he said tersely.

"I can see that," Wilson said, equally tense.

"Good eye."

"You know-"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But-"

"I'm fine."

Wilson didn't want to push him anymore. It wouldn't get either of them anywhere.

"Whatever you say," he said, finishing his drink and getting up to leave. "I…guess I'll see you tomorrow," he said, uncertain of exactly what he should do. House was in for a rough night, but he couldn't exactly invite himself over to witness it. Not that he wanted to. But coming off of narcotics—it wasn't something one should do at home alone. But House knew that. He started toward the door, hoping House would stop him.

House merely said, "Yeah," and didn't look up from the TV.

Wilson left, trying to convince himself he had nothing to worry about.

House sat restlessly for a while after he'd gone. Finally he got up and drug the record player to the couch, selecting one of John Henry's albums and lying back down after he freshened his drink. He channel-surfed until he found an action movie and put it on mute, listening to John Henry make the trumpet scream.

His mind wandered. Wilson made him angry, checking up on him like that. He was _fine_. He'd be fine. And Cuddy. She didn't think he could do it. Well, he could. He'd considered going off the Vicodin before. He'd all but done it, really, trying at least once each year to cut back on his intake until he was stretching a four hour dose to six, seven, eight hours. Each time the pain became too much to bear and he had to accept again the fact that he had chronic pain that needed to be managed. _But maybe there's another way_, he'd thought every time he began tapering his dosage. Now, though. Now he had a reason. Clinic duty. Showing up Cuddy. And part of him—a very large part—was curious also. How far could he stretch the mind over matter formula? Pretty far, he guessed because even though today had been difficult, he'd made it. And besides, he had a good case to keep him distracted.

There was, however, always the problem of present, the waiting. Unless the kid went south quick, he was free for the night. So what to do for now? For the hours between action? For the hours between cases? That question irked him constantly, day and night, only receding when he had a good case like he did now and the many possible courses of action spread out before him, time constrained by the patient's fragile body. Those few good cases had come around often enough of late to keep him almost happy. Now he had another one that was as good as the rest. The two weeks before had passed with nothing but sniveling clinic patients and the last case left him unable to extract the same satisfaction from pestering Foreman. He had been more annoyed at the world than usual when this case turned up. But the moments in between, the moments that made up this thing called life. He didn't like them.

John Henry blew the horn. House had had enough liquor that his body was beginning to feel hazy. He couldn't tell if the Tylenol was working but he felt okay. Not good. Definitely not great. But okay enough. And still a little restless. Wilson had stirred up a lot of things. No, scratch that, _Cuddy _and her challenge had stirred up a lot of things. Things that he felt were best left undisturbed.

He felt like doing something. The movie had climaxed already in a ball of fire and was beginning its gushy denouement, bleh. The local news was next; he had no interest in who'd killed who today or whether a generation of twenty-year-olds would be on the street when social security went bust. Piano? No. He was comfortable for only the second time that day and he didn't want to move and spoil it. Not in the mood, anyway. He had various medical journals, People, Entertainment Weekly, The New Yorker, and bills within arm's reach in a neat stack left by his cleaning lady. _Don Quixote_, _Dr. Zhivago_, _From Russia With Love_,and the new Grisham also cluttered the table. None of them was adequate to dispel the looming heavy weight of tomorrow and the next day and the next, nevermind the next hour, the next minute. Maybe the kids would have something for him in the morning, his little ducklings trailing in a row. And that made him, what? The gruffy goat under the bridge. Animal metaphors were stupid.

Wilson. The cause of all this. Well, except for Cuddy, but he didn't want to think about Cuddy. Wilson. He was a good friend even if he had been a prick lately. The last case, the Jane Doe, had cut him deeply. Strange, how you can know a man, think you know him, for over a decade and still he surprises you with a long-lost relative. Some good things were left in the world after all.

That night, after House had followed him, they'd sat on the bench in silence for ten minutes. The cold was eating away at his threshold of pain with each passing minute, but House knew that Wilson needed these minutes. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and suggested they get a drink. "Not tonight," Wilson said and helped House stand. "Thanks," he said, "thanks," and turned and walked away. House limped to the nearest bus stop, cursing under his breath as he went, and watched Access Hollywood when he got home followed by a football match between Manchester and Leeds. Manchester's keeper was an American who had Tourette's. House envied him ever so slightly.

Wilson. He had been there. When the pain first started. House had tried to keep it to himself, but it kept getting worse. He made an appointment. Wilson noticed and confronted him. House kept his appointment. Then they screwed up. He found himself in his apartment one night at three o'clock thinking he was going to die. He called Wilson, which really pissed off whichever wife it was Wilson was on.

Wilson started to panic when House didn't answer the door. Over the phone he sounded like he was being squeezed to death. "It's my leg," he'd said, panting into the receiver. Wilson fumbled with his keys, thankful that House had given him a spare to water the plants whenever he was away at a conference.

"House?" he called into the dark apartment. "House?"

He heard a gasp from the bedroom. "In here."

Wilson flicked on the light to see his friend curled in a ball in the middle of his bed, shaking and sweating, covers strewn everywhere. "My God, what happened?"

"I don't know." House had his eyes shut tightly, breathing in shudders. "Hospital," he croaked.

Wilson picked up the phone, "I'll call 911."

"No!" He opened his eyes and found Wilson. "What do you think I called you for? No ambulances. You take me."

"But you're-"

"No!"

"Fine." Wilson knelt by the bed. "Can you walk?"

"Sure." Wilson doubted it, but knew House wouldn't listen to him. He watched his friend try to move to the edge of the bed. House only had on boxers. Wilson grabbed a t-shirt off the floor and helped him sit up before putting it on. House was pale and exhausted. He looked years older than he was. "Is it still the right leg?"

House nodded, his eyes shut against the pain again.

Wilson moved to sit next to him and pulled his friend's arm around him, supporting him with his left arm. "On three, okay?" House grunted and Wilson lifted him up. They walked slowly out of the bedroom. House's body was hot against him and wet with sweat. His shaking intensified. "Where's your coat?" Wilson asked, "it's cold."

"No coat," House groaned. "Just go."

Somehow they made it down the stairs and Wilson settled House into the passenger's seat. The ER was empty when they arrived and Wilson got House lying down quickly, by-passing triage. The attending started asking questions when House growled, "Give me something for the pain NOW." He really wanted to pass out. Every muscle ached from the strain and his leg, well, he could say goodbye to it right now and not look back. He knew it would be at least five long minutes before the nurse showed up with something, even with his shouting and Wilson backing him up. The attending left, shouting something to the nurse. House felt a hand grab his and squeeze. He squeezed back but didn't open his eyes. Another shot of pain from his leg hit him and he finally passed out.

House remembered that a lot had happened over the next few days, but when he recalled it, it was jumbled with fear, pain, exhaustion, and the swirl of medication, and made little sense. He did know one thing for certain: Wilson had never left his side.

Then there was a long period of physical therapy. Then he hit the wall, the knowledge that he'd never get any better no matter how hard he worked. Then depression took over. He retreated into himself, watching Wilson nurse a divorce and celebrate another marriage. Stacy…he didn't want to think about Stacy. Even if she had been there, she was gone now. Suddenly it had been two years since his misdiagnosis. He began doing limited consulting work over the phone. He received a job offer in California. Wilson urged him to take it. He did. It lasted six months before he quit, disgusted with himself, what he'd become, the idiots surrounding him. One day Wilson called him, talking about an opening on the East coast. The years had been lonely. He missed his friend. So he went back and he did his job again, a prisoner in his body. The winters gnawed at his flesh and his disposition. Wilson was right. He had changed. But it was just time, just the weight of time that had changed him.

John Henry blew the last note and the record skipped into scratchy static. His body felt like sleep now. The bottle was nearly empty. He switched his headphones to his cd player, put in a Sigur Ros album and lowered the volume to a liminal level, turning off the TV. He knew he would regret a night on the couch but he didn't care because his body felt like sleep and his mind was beginning to glaze over. He let it drift, concentrating on nothing, falling into a half-sleep that promised to turn into more.

* * *

His leg woke him a one o'clock. He took some more Tylenol and finished off the bottle of scotch. He sat on the couch for a time, thinking and trying not to think before he made his way to the bedroom and fumbled around with drunk hands trying to get his clothes off, cursing his leg, Wilson, Cuddy, med students, nurses, birth, narcotics, pain. The scotch diffused and he finally felt pickled enough again to flop onto the bed and try to sleep. 


	4. Day Two: The Beginning

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** PG-13 except where otherwise noted. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, and medical realism/grossness.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox" and the rest of season 1 with some season 2 foreshadowing.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Day Two: The Beginning**

_In heaven everything is fine  
In heaven everything's alright  
In heaven everything is fine  
In heaven..._

_Working on livin', I'm working on leaving,  
I'm working on leaving the living  
Love you more than everything, loved it more than anything  
Loved everything more than anything  
Working on drinking, I'm working on driving  
I'm working on driving my dreams so  
Working on living, I'm working on leaving  
I'm working on leaving the living_

_In heaven everything is fine  
In heaven everything's alright _

—Modest Mouse, "Working on Leaving the Living"

Morning. Mooorrrrrnnnnning. _Whhhyyyyyy Moorrrrnning_. It was a damn shame he ever had to wake up. Especially when pain, his very best friend in the whole wide world, was lying in wait, eager to spring stiffness, sore muscles, angry nerves, the dead weight of tissue on him like cold water. Most mornings he made for the shower first thing—well, first thing after the other first thing—and his body relented, allowing him to get on with his day.

But not today. Oh no, not today. Today was special.

Today pain was pulling him out of a dreamless sleep at four in the morning, his leg a mass of angry flesh. He groaned deeply, not wanting to move. His head was pounding, the room spinning. He felt sick. _Just a hangover_, he told himself, _just a hangover_.

He lay still in the dark for a while. He didn't know how long. Fifteen minutes. An hour. It made no difference.

Some time before the sky started to change he was up, moving gingerly, taking a shower, dressing, forcing toast and coffee down his throat, swallowing Tylenol again, sinking onto a seat on the bus already exhausted from moving so much in the cold, his brain beginning to numb with pain, wishing it wasn't so bad that he couldn't drive. _Goddamn Cuddy_. _Goddamn motion_.

He got to his office early. A few new lab reports were waiting on his desk. Good. Something to do. He turned the desk lamp on low and glanced over them.

They turned out to be a whole lot of nothing. The light made his head hurt more and he was just about to turn it off when Cuddy appeared at his door.

"You're here early," she said. "Pharmacy hasn't done inventory yet. Are they going to find something missing when they do?"

"Do you expect me to be that obvious?" House said, leaning back in his chair and trying to look casual. "The streets are rife with stolen meds. Could be cut with rat poison, but that's the risk you take. I'd go there before I went to your precious pharmacy. And the streets don't run out, unlike another place I know of."

A distinct lack of amusement showed on her face.

House paused to size her up. "Why are _you_ here anyway? Where's your spy?"

"You presume that I would waste resources on you like that?" Cuddy sniffed. "I've wasted too many already. God knows why I do it." She tossed her hands in the air, then settled back against the doorframe and eyed him, arms crossed. "I'm short staffed in the clinic all week. Or until you give."

House ignored her barb. "No. I presume you don't trust me."

"Ah, well then you would be correct," she conceded, pushing herself away from the door to stand straight. "How's the kid? The dad was pretty miffed that you tested him for drugs."

"_I _didn't test him for anything."

"Of course not," she said, hands thrown in the air again. "You're useless."

"And you'll be eating those words before the day is over," he said, taking up a lab report and putting on his best shit-eating grin, "Always a pleasure chatting with you, my dear Dr. Cuddy. Now if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do."

Cuddy sniffed at him: _yeah right_. She gave him another eye roll and left.

Once he was sure she was gone, he flipped the light off and put his head down on his desk, trying not to throw up.

* * *

Wilson came to see him around seven. Or was it eight? He had the blinds drawn and it was still dark inside his office.

The light was off so Wilson poked his head in the door.

"House? Cuddy said you were here."

Wilson saw a shadow jump and turn the light on. House looked bad.

"What do_ you _want?" he sneered before Wilson could say anything else.

Wilson stiffened, annoyance at House overcoming his concern. "The biopsy was negative."

"Oh," he said. "That."

"Yeah."

"One down. You haven't seen my minions running around here lately, have you?" He looked at his watch. "They're late."

"They're probably camped out in the lab."

"Let's go find out," House said, standing with surprising agility and moving more quickly than Wilson would've guessed. House swept by him and Wilson followed feeling a little bewildered.

Resting in the dark had done him good. His head wasn't pounding anymore and the light didn't bother him. However, he felt more and more nauseous with every step and he could feel the strength he'd gained sapping already.

They rounded a corner and found Cameron, Foreman, and Chase standing in a knot outside the kid's room talking.

Foreman saw him first. "Dr. House," he said tightly, bracing for a round of insults.

"Were you going to come talk to me or have you figured it out already?" House asked irritably, trying not to lean too heavily on his cane or against the glass wall of the kid's room.

"There's nothing," Chase said.

"Nothing?" he said in disbelief.

They each rattled off lab results. Drugs. Strike one. Infection. Strike two. Lupus. Strike three.

"Where's his hematocrit?" House asked, annoyed with the three of them. And Wilson too.

"Thirteen," Foreman said.

Suddenly he felt very dizzy and, tasting bile in his throat, he leaned against the wall before he could stop himself.

Foreman's voice cut in out of din of someone else talking. "You okay?"

House straightened up and fixed him with a deadly glare but before he could respond their dying kid called out. His minions responded, leaving only himself and Wilson.

"Polite for a dying kid," he muttered as he turned. He needed to go sit down or throw up or something. Something that wasn't standing.

"How long has it been?" he heard Wilson say.

"I'm fine," he said, happy that he'd turned back mid-stride without stumbling. The pain was becoming harder and harder to fight. Yeah. He needed to go throw up.

Wilson watched him go, noticing that House looked much worse than he had only a half hour ago. He knew this was a bad idea. He'd seen the labs on the kid. It was a tough case under any circumstances. But it had taken him years of carefully placed hints to get House in the position he was in now. And he knew House. He knew that pain wouldn't stop him right now. Not when he had something to work on. Not when he had his pride on the line with Cuddy. It was irresponsible of him. Irresponsible of Cuddy too. But it was also out of his hands.

* * *

House sat in his office, head in his hands. They smelled like soap from the men's room. An unpleasant scent. His headache was back.

Shit. He felt like it. He looked like it. He probably would've eaten it if it would get him a certain little white pill.

But no. The world was full of complicating factors. Corprophagia wouldn't help things. Might be kind of interesting in a totally disgusting sort of way though.

His head was full of stray thoughts like a radio that kept changing stations. One of them—Chase?...yeah, it was Chase—told him about the kid's sudden partial blindness. The main line of that thought played against the white noise of pain and tiredness and growing self-doubt. But he felt better. He had something to think about.

House had just come to a conclusion when he heard the Three Stooges arrive discussing meaningless options. The eye wasn't important. He forced himself up, swaying, dizzy, and into the other room. He felt like an old man.

"Forget the eye," he said. "Tell him to use the other one to look on the bright side."

He took a deep breath. This pain was killing him. He needed to sit down.

"The clot...tells us something," he said, concentrating on a chair across the room, rubbing his forehead. "It could help us figure out what he has."

They were all looking at him like he'd grown another head.

"Which could mean he gets to live." _Quit staring and do your job_. "Differential diagnosis, people," he said, sagging in the chair. "How does internal bleeding suddenly start clotting?

Chase piped up immediately. "Makes no sense. They're opposing processes."

"It can happen in lupus," Cameron said. "Increased platelet count can cause blood clots."

"ANA was negative, it's not lupus."

Wilson? What was he doing here? And why was he going for the coffee?

"This is true," House said. "But why are you the one saying it? What you doing here? I thought we ruled out cancer."

"I was...lonely," Wilson said lamely, unfolding a newspaper.

"Well go see Cuddy. She needs a friend."

"That's funny. She said you might need one."

"That's why you're here? She wants you to keep an eye on me? Make sure I don't cheat." _Again?_ _Bastard_. _Both of you_. He needed to be on the other side of the room, away from Wilson, that bastard.

"No, I wanted to make sure you don't start firing shots from the clock tower."

_Cute_.

"I'm fine," House said. He sighed to himself. He could feel their eyes on his back. Well, now they knew. Or would know very shortly. Just great. _Just what I need_.

"What's going on," Cameron finally asked.

"He hasn't had any Vicodin in over a day."

_Thank you Dr. Wilson_.

"Does you leg hurt?" Foreman asked in that punk-ass tone of his.

"You ever been shot?" House replied. He was _not_ going to take any shit from Foreman today.

"There's gonna be side effects," Foreman continued.

_As if I don't already know that_.

"Insomnia. Depression. Tachycardia."

"Withdrawal symptoms," House said quickly. "Not applicable." _Besides, insomnia, depression—normal_. "The only side effects I'm going to have are some pain and thirty days of freedom." _Yeah_, the doubting part of him said._ And today. That was just an unusually tenacious hangover, right?_

They were silent. He could feel the mixture of pity and sympathy rising in the room. It really pissed him off.

"Am I the only one who's concerned about a dying kid?" he snapped, frustrated. "If it's not lupus, what else?"

Chase started talking.

That was when he looked back into his office.

And there she was, stretching, beautiful. Blood drained rapidly from his head.

He blinked hard. If hallucinations were going to come into the mix it was a little early for them. She was still there. Still gorgeous. Still...oooo...still...stretching. His groin stirred with a vengeance despite the pain right next to it. His pulse quickened. _Tachycardia_. _Yeah_. _Tachy...oooo stretching bending_..._cardia_. She had Vanna beat by so much it wasn't even funny.

Wait. He was still in the conference room. She was...taking off her jacket...not real?

The hum of voices in the room stopped and he snapped back into himself.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. What happened?"

"It's an infection," Foreman said, punk-assed again. "In his heart."

"Great." She was bending over again. That ass. Ohhh, that ass. "Echocardiogram for the heart, IV antibiotics for the infections. STAT."

The staff disassembled. She was still there. He was mystified. Like he hadn't seen a woman in a long time.

He caught Wilson walking up behind him out of the corner of his eye. He was no longer the slightest bit angry.

"Is it my birthday?" he asked, puzzled.

"She's a masseuse," Wilson said grinning. Sure enough, she was setting up a table.

"You ordered her?" House asked. "Going to use my office to carry out another sordid love affair?"

"No," Wilson said. "She gives massages."

"Yeah, I got that the first time," he said.

She opened the door and said she needed to wash her hands first.

House spoke to Wilson in a harsh whisper, "If you were going to get me a masseuse, why get one who looks like _that_?"

"Well, you seem kind of lonely," Wilson said.

"I'm not lonely," House insisted. "My leg hurts."

"She's a real masseuse."

The shine of lust in Wilson's eye…the way that suit clung to her curves…sure she was a real masseuse. Sure.

"She's five hundred dollars an hour, minimum."

"She's hot so she's a hooker?" Wilson countered. "What kind of pathetic logic is that?"

"The envious, jealous, I-never-got-any-in-high-school kind of logic," House said, really warming up now despite Wilson's presence and the pain in his leg that usually made this difficult if not impossible on most days. "Hello," he added sarcastically.

"She's a legitimate masseuse," Wilson said. "Come on," he nudged, screwing up his face the way he did when they eyed someone at a bar. If House hadn't been so excited by her, he'd be a little annoyed that Wilson was using him to get eye candy for later.

"My God," Wilson choked, "she's beautiful."

"Just because she's beautiful I should do it?" House asked. "What kind of pathetic logic is that?"

She was coming back.

"The envious, jealous, I'm-married-and-can't-do-anything logic," Wilson said quickly. Oh yeah. Wilson was definitely making a bee line to the men's room.

"Hello," Wilson said warmly as she smiled at him.

"Listen," House said to her across the massage table, "I'm sure you're really good at whatever it is you do but—"

"Dame su mano," she said.

House hadn't expected Spanish. His thinking head wasn't getting enough blood to process the words immediately. A dumb "Huh?" came out of his mouth.

She grabbed his hand.

"Hey, what're you doing, leggo of my hand—" he protested.

She shushed him seductively. The way she was looking at him, it _was_ just like high school. Without his five hundred an hour, she wouldn't even give him the time of day. And her fingers on his hand…

"She doesn't speak English," Wilson supplied, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, very pleased with himself.

House couldn't come up with a coherent response.

She started digging into his palm.

"Oww," he looked at her, that hurt like hell. "Ahhww." And then..."ahhhhh," oh that felt good, felt better, felt like... The pain in his leg receded. His groin surged forward.

"Oh my God..." The words spilled out of his mouth. He was in a new kind of heaven. "Bueno."

Then she let go, her palms flat on the table.

"Take off your clothes," she instructed.

House snapped back to reality and stared stupidly at her, much too embarrassed about his current condition to strip for her. He knew she must know exactly what she was doing to him—she seemed to take pleasure in his response—but he was the good boy his mother raised him to be and this made him uncomfortable. He didn't even remember that his leg hurt less now.

Wilson shot him a look that said 'you owe me one' and said aloud, "I'll just leave you two alone."

"See you at lunch," he called as he left the office.

House wasn't paying attention. The way she was looking at him. Of course she knew. And now that the endorphins from the hand massage had worn off and embarrassment had taken over, he was on his way to being okay to strip.

Her knowing smile told him he was in trouble. Damn Wilson.

But he had to admit to himself as he shrugged his jacket off that this might work after all…

* * *

Half an hour later, she let him lie on the table like the puddle of goo he was while she washed up. She smirked to herself. She was _very_ good at her job. They all came to see that eventually. This one had had huge knots of tension everywhere. His friend was right to choose her. She _was_ very good at her job. And she found shy white boys who were embarrassed about their bodies and even the suggestion of sex—and no, she wasn't that kind of masseuse: she didn't need to be—absolutely adorable and completely submissive to her. This one wasn't that bad looking either.

In his office, House didn't move to get up too quickly. She could do things with her hands that he understood anatomically, but he'd never imagined they would feel so good. This was almost better than sex. Almost.

His leg was hurting again by the time he got off the table. Putting his clothes back on didn't help. And now there was lunch with Wilson, the spy who set him up with a damn fine masseuse, and he was feeling sick again, not the least bit interested in smelling cafeteria food. Plus he couldn't shake the feeling that Wilson was trying to live vicariously through him when he chose this particular woman. He had only the memory of the past half hour now.

She finished packing up and he held the door for her. Her card was tucked safely in his breast pocket.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, adjusting his collar.

"Bye," she said with a smile.

He reflected that language wasn't really important when she had hands like that.

Chase was walking up to him, getting an eyeful. House headed him off, knowing exactly where his dirty little mind was going.

"I had a massage," he said.

"Looks like you had a masseuse," Chase quipped.

_Very funny_.

"Help the pain?" Chase asked in that cheeky monkey voice of his.

"I'm fine," House insisted. His leg was killing him again and despite the fact that he'd spent the better part of the hour lying down, he was tired again. Then suddenly really tired, each step taking more and more out of him.

"I know," Chase said quickly, covering any concern he might have felt.

Chase updated him on the boy as they walked down the hall. And then he had an excellent idea. Which was good because he was past due for one. It actually was a damn good idea, though not perhaps the part of the kid's anatomy that Chase should be concentrating on.

"Why didn't you mention this earlier?" House asked.

Chase seemed surprised by the question. "Well, I didn't think of it before," Chase answered.

"You should have," House said.

Never give them too much encouragement or they'll get unduly cocky. Like Foreman.

Chase walked away and House let his guard down a little, dropping the mask of steadiness. He walked slowly around the corner and stopped, leaning against the wall. Why couldn't his leg just fall off? He was dizzy from walking. Dizzy from _walking_. How pathetic.

Deciding it was due to his being sick earlier and needing some food for energy and not to anything else, House gathered himself and walked toward the cafeteria. It was either this or Wilson would order him another masseuse. He only pretended to be annoyed by that prospect.

* * *

Wilson saw House enter the cafeteria and look around for him. He tried to read House's stoic countenance, looking for any sign of discomfort. He had a pretty good idea of how House felt right now, withdrawal or not. Yet the man was walking with his usual gait, queuing up, carrying a tray in one hand.

House joined him at the table and started eating right away, though he didn't really recognize whatever it was he was shoveling into himself. But he wouldn't do anything to invite a pitying look from Wilson the Spy. Pity was worse than pain.

"So how was she?" Wilson asked, dying to know.

"Oh, she was wonderful, I screwed her brains out. She gave me her digits." House rolled his eyes. "What is she, your new project?"

"I wish," he snorted. "I can't go near _that_."

"You're not going to give it the old college try?"

"I'd need a few rounds of shots first."

"That can be arranged."

"Seriously," Wilson said, looking down at his plate and reddening.

House looked down at his plate also. "What is this stuff anyway? It's worse than what I had in high school and that was back before government regulations kept lunch ladies from hacking up hairballs and serving them for lunch."

"Oh man," Wilson said, pushing his tray away, "you know how to spoil an appetite."

"Oh, go back to your juvenile fantasies and you'll perk right up," House said with an eye roll.

He stirred the unrecognizable red-brown substance on his plate. Wilson did the same.

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Wilson asked quietly, "How's the leg?"

"How's the wife?" House retorted and scooped some of it into his mouth.

Wilson bit back a reply, throwing his spoon on the plate: no more. "Have you taken anything?"

"Just the glow from the faces of happy children after I lead them to my gingerbread house in the woods," House deflected. He dropped his spoon too. "Cuddy's still got you tailing me? Does the woman have no trust in anyone?"

"You say that like it's a question," Wilson countered.

"Yeah, well..." House trailed off and examined his plate.

He'd finished most of the food-like substance on it. He figured it would stay down long enough for him to find a nice, quiet place to vomit. Or maybe his hangover was gone completely. He sighed. Some part of him knew he was deluding himself but he couldn't stop doing it. Just some pain and a whole lot of freedom. Nothing more.

Wilson had only eaten half of his...whatever it was. He wasn't hungry anymore. Picturing the masseuse didn't make him want to eat a plate of nasty hairballs any more than he already did.

"I can't help you if I don't know what's going on," he said.

"You can't help me," House said with finality and stood.

House didn't break eye contact and let no part of his face show the fire in his leg or the roiling in his stomach show. This was Wilson's punishment. He would deprive Wilson of what he needed—namely, to be needed by him, House, right now. His stomach gurgled and turned toward the garbage cans.

Wilson watched him bus his tray and limp off at a good pace. House may not want his help, but he needed it and he was going to get it. He stood to follow him but thought better of it. He bused his tray instead and went to think about this conversation in his office.

This...experiment…whatever…would work.

It had to.


	5. Day Two: Heart Cooks Brain

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** PG-13 except where otherwise noted. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, and medical realism/grossness.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox" and the rest of season 1 with some season 2 foreshadowing.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Day Two: Heart Cooks Brain**

_In this life that we call home  
The years go fast and  
The days go so slow  
The days go so slow._

—Modest Mouse, "Heart Cooks Brain"

Hands drying, mouth washed out, cane at the ready, House stared at himself in the bathroom mirror: the same level gaze he gave people who were bullshiting him.

Was he bullshitting himself?

Blink.

Yes.

Blink.

No.

Blink.

No. He wasn't.

It was just a bad day.

Just a stomach virus.

Just that he was older and couldn't hold his drink anymore.

Just the beef stroganoff.

Just the pain.

Just two hours of boredom while Chase tried his fancy little trick out.

Boredom. He'd googled the term once and come across a piece of Heideggar that he vaguely recalled from university days. He was bored so he memorized parts of it: "Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abyss of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference. This boredom reveals beings as a whole." And then something about boredom and being held out into the nothing and confronting essence of being. Or something. Heideggar was a Nazi in need of Prozac and House felt held out into the nothing all the time, so what use was being at all?

Pain.

Yes.

Pain.

And something else he'd liked by one of those poets that did away with himself so the world wouldn't have to do it for him. Something like, "Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy 'Ever to confess you're bored means you have no Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored."

Heavy boredom induced malaise, right? Malaise produced nausea, right? Sartre had a whole book on it. Right?

He looked at his mirror self.

Right?

The mirror self stared back, not answering.

Fine. Be that way.

He broke eye contact before the mirror self did.

None of this mediated his dislike of mirrors. On the whole he didn't see much use in them except that they reminded him of his heavy boredom and the way his mind clamped on to a quote and wouldn't let him forget it. He used them to shave—and that he did rarely—and that was pretty much it.

He was just about to limp back to his office when his leg shot fire to his brain and he grabbed the sink, gritting his teeth.

There was no way to bullshit about the leg.

After pain settled he wondered idly if he could squeeze porcelain so hard that his fingers would bruise.

Hmm.

Might be worth a shot.

Not now though. His legs were shaking too much.

He took slow, deep breaths, closing his eyes, summoning strength and will. He could do this.

He left the bathroom and was making good progress down the hall when a blur of white coats and a bed rolled by. He saw Chase and then Cameron and double-timed to catch them.

"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling his leg pull, his back protest, his strength waning again.

"AST is 859," Cameron snapped off. "We're getting him to the ICU."

_The liver_. _Shit_.

They kept walking. No stopping to wait for the cripple. His leg shot fire again.

_Shit! fucking leg! Shit!_

"ALT and GGT are in the tank," Chase said. "Our antibiotics—"

"Would not have caused this," House interrupted, screaming silent curses at his leg.

"She must have given him drugs," the father shouted, the prick.

"I wouldn't do that!" the girl yelled. Her voice grated in his ears.

_Dammit, you morons!_ _There's a reason I'm the doctor and you're not_.

"It's not drugs!" he shouted, stopping when he saw them stop.

He let himself sag, no longer able to keep up a front.

"His liver is shutting down." _Tell me you see this. Tell me you're not all idiots_.

"What? What does that mean?" The father again.

_Ignorant bastard, shut up! Go hold his hand or something, just don't ask questions._

He couldn't deal with people the way he felt. He was sick of this guy.

"Means he's all better, he's ready to go home," he snipped.

"What?"

_Let him slip in a puddle of urine and give him a Darwin award, the species would be better off without him_.

"What do you think it means," he sneered, pulling himself up. "He can't live without a liver. He's dying."

The father rounded the bed and bore down on House. Whoa, anger problem. Maybe he beat the kid and that caused the internal bleeds. _Certainly seems the type_.

"What is your problem?" the father barked.

"Bum leg," House spat. "What's yours?"

Foreman stepped in. Oooo, the peacemaker. "Hey. We don't have time for this. Let's go."

They left and House sagged again, grateful the nosy dad was gone.

But wait. Cameron was still there. _Damned nosy staff,_ he grumbled to himself.

"His son's dying and you're mocking him?" she asked. She was pissed. Even worse, she was worried.

He couldn't deal with this now. Force of will was the only thing keeping him on his feet. "It was a dumb question," he said.

She searched his face. She saw more fatigue than anything else and briefly considered calling a nurse. Or Cuddy. But she was too angry.

"No, it wasn't," she said.

_Why would you do something like this:_ he saw the question flash across her face.

_Dammit_. She had him.

He looked at the ground. "You're right," he said, almost contrite. "It wasn't."

She was taken aback by his admission but was still too angry to let it show. How self-destructive was he? Did someone have to die before he stopped this charade?

"Is proving Cuddy wrong worth all this?" she asked.

He didn't answer, didn't meet her eyes, didn't see the mixture of concern and outrage on her face.

She walked away. She had a job to do.

Was it that he didn't much care? Was it his leg, the pain?

He sighed, backing up until he felt the smooth surface of the wall, and leaning heavily against it. Though he agreed with Cameron, he had a hard time telling if he really had been too harsh. And it didn't matter whether he had been or not in the long run. Cameron was already on damage control. That was why he'd hired her. Well, okay, he had a few other reasons, but she'd kiss a rat with the plague if she thought it would make the animal feel just a little bit better. He'd nearly had to fend her off with a stick after he'd hired her. Every time she looked at him it was with pity and concern, two things he loathed. He didn't practice them and he didn't ask for them.

Memory swirled and painful reality swam away for a moment.

He'd come in late one day after a sleepless night of infomercials. The unreality of rain sliding down the window on the bus, the jerky motion of elevators, that _smell_, the buzz of things happening all around him, of other people affirming their existence, insisting on talking and talking and talking—he was feeling a little unglued when he stepped into his office. He needed coffee. Lots of coffee. He made for the coffee maker, barely registering Chase and Cameron sitting around doing nothing. Foreman wasn't in the picture yet. He poured a strong cup of coffee and swept back into his office without a word.

"Are we ever going to do anything?" he heard Chase grumble.

Coffee was good. Goooood.

He heard footsteps and then Cameron was staring at him with that look again.

Foreman had been abrupt about it—rude, really, asking him what happened to his leg the first day on the job after House had made him sit around for three hours. "Feel down some stairs," he'd snarled and Foreman left him alone after that. Chase had never asked at all. But Cameron. It took her a week of pitying faces to work up the courage to ask.

"Are you all right, Dr. House?"

She looked so meek most of the time. It made him want to shout "Boo!" to see if she'd run off.

"Fine," he muttered, not looking at her. When he didn't hear footsteps clacking out of the room he looked up. Still there. "Don't you have work to do?" he sneered.

"It's just, you look pretty bad," she blurted. "Is your leg okay?"

"Leg?" he said. "What leg?"

If insult didn't get them to leave, crazy usually did the trick. It was his clean-up hitter.

But she just wouldn't back down. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

"That's between me and my bookie," he said and proceeded to make a show of ignoring her.

She stood for a moment, balling her fists, and then stormed out. _Finally_. He'd thought it would take her the better part of a month to get around to it. Everyone did eventually. Well, except Chase. He was simply too thick to notice. Which was perfectly fine with House. The faster he could turn their pity into anger the better.

He had all but become a hermit when he realized that his lifelong talent for pissing people off might dispel the cloud of sympathy that hung over him when he went anywhere or did anything. He had a vested interest in the well-cultivated bum look he wore. People were less inclined to interfere when they thought you were homeless. Add crazy to that mix and you got a formula for clearing a room with only a few well-timed words. The pills made that even easier to pull off—he didn't need words when he could pop a pill out in front of someone. Addict, they immediately labeled him. The system worked surprisingly well.

He was jolted out of his reverie by a rough female voice. "Sir, are you okay?"

He opened his eyes to see a nurse looking at him suspiciously.

"Fine," he said and stalked off before she could form a follow-up question.

Moving so quickly made him dizzy but he didn't care. He was sick to death of people and their precious pity. Best to alienate them before they could form an impression of him as a frail cripple. He much preferred the deranged bum-cripple look. Shut off sympathy before it could get its legs under it.

He sniffed at the thought and wondered how much longer he'd have to hang around here before he could go suffer in peace.

* * *

_I'm tryin  
I'm tryin to  
Drink away the part of the day  
That I cannot sleep away_

—Modest Mouse, "Polar Opposites"

House downed another shot, feeling it burn down his throat and radiate throughout his body.

The afternoon had been less than fun.

The kid was nice and comfy in ICU and his minions were scurrying about doing lab work. It left him without much to do. A failing liver was pretty straightforward, after all. No need for the brilliant Dr. House. Just get him stable and go from there.

When it had become clear that there really was nothing at all left for him to do in the way of solving problems, he'd whipped out his portable TV and tried very hard to concentrate on the intricate twists and turns of the early afternoon soaps. He wished commercials would disappear. They were all reruns to him, not enough of a distraction.

He'd thought it was impossible for his leg to hurt any worse than it had yesterday or this morning or an hour ago. No. It was very much possible. More than that—and as he knew—coming off Vicodin wasn't just going to make the pain worse. He should be so lucky.

By the time Oprah came on every part of his body was in active rebellion and he was fresh from an encounter with another unfortunate and rather messy side-effect of coming down.

He'd been calmly sitting in his office, minding his own business, waiting out a commercial when an insidious cramp seized him and he hissed and doubled over in the chair. A line from Trainspotting came to him immediately, totally appropriate to the situation, and Ewan McGregor's Scottish brogue filled his ear: "Heroin makes you constipated. The heroin from my last hit is fading away and the suppositories have yet to melt. I am no longer constipated."

Especially the last sentence.

Yeah.

Same with Vicodin, though perhaps less so if you hadn't been taking it for years. As it was…well, he'd known his body didn't always like him but this was just too much. Once he was sure there couldn't possibly be anything left inside him, he tucked his tail firmly between his legs, limped down to the pharmacy and got a few days' worth of Loperamide. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Shitting himself into oblivion didn't do much to help his mood and by the time he'd crawled back to his office and tuned in to Oprah, it had become irrefutably clear to him that nothing he'd felt that day was unrelated to going off Vicodin. Quite the opposite; he had an angry digestive system and the unmerciful feel of shrapnel grating around in his leg to prove it. So now he knew for sure, even though he'd known all along. He was a doctor; how could he not know what going off a narcotic would do to him? But still he hated knowing, the unavoidable knowledge. Ignorance had been bliss—an addictive, functional, normal bliss.

By the time five o'clock rolled around he was feeling so low that he'd either do something about it or die of self-hate.

This led him to Milo's, where he was now, feeling the alcohol seep through his tired muscles, warming them. The bar was a dive but very close to the hospital and walking distance mattered more than anything else to him at that moment.

He'd had...what?...six shots?...seven...eight? Something like that. It was hard to keep track when the bartender kept refilling the same glass. His leg was killing him but after that much straight liquor, the rest of his body was comfortably numb. He felt his mind becoming lethargic also. One more and he could sleep for a few hours. He put the glass down and tapped on the bar for another. It had just gone 6 o'clock or so. Maybe. His sense of time was waning with the rapid infusion of alcohol.

The bartender plopped down another shot and House was just beginning to forget certain parts of the day and certain parts of his body when Wilson burst into the bar and stalked over to him, his face red.

"Where were you!" he shouted, grabbing House by the coat. "You were supposed to meet me at 5:30. Dammit, House. You play games at lunch and now this?"

The bartender looked at the pair threateningly, wondering if the old guy with the cane had picked a fight with a guy who could kick his ass blindfolded. The old fellow was drunk enough to take the young guy, but the bartender had pegged him a happy drunk. Maybe the young guy would kick his ass anyway. Lover's quarrel or something.

"Where was I?" House said grinning sloppily at him. "Not hiding well enough, apparently. Am I 'it' now?"

"You're drunk." Wilson said, pushing him. "I don't believe this. You're drunk."

"That _is _what people do in bars," House said and lifted the drink to his lips.

Wilson grabbed House's arm, spilling the drink on the bar and on House's trousers. He was livid.

House just grinned at him again. "You owe me five bucks," he said, "and a pair of jeans. An expensive pair."

He didn't normally like pissing Wilson off, but he was too tired, too drunk, and in too much pain to care. And Wilson had been pissing him off lately. He deserved it. And it was really funny too. Wilson practically had steam coming out of his ears like a cartoon character. House laughed.

Wilson's face went even redder and his mouth formed a tight, tiny line.

"Let's go," he said through clenched teeth. "Now."

"Okay, okay, herr jailer."

House left the bartender a sizable tip and stumbled off the bar stool, feeling pain flare and shoot through his leg. He was just drunk enough to not care, though he couldn't help the hiss the escaped him. Wilson followed him as he lurched out of the bar and into the last traces of winter twilight.

Wilson bundled him into the front seat. "If you puke in my car..." he warned.

"Come on, Jimmy, no worries." House pondered the phrase for a moment. "Isn't that a great phrase? Chase doesn't say it but he should, being Austrian—Aus_tral_ian—and all. His cultural heritage, along with surfing, Fosters, and pissing off crocodiles. Great phrase. No worries. Say it with me." House's head lolled at him.

"Oh, God, you're _really_ drunk."

"Stop stating the obvious. I can feel brain cells dying when you do."

"Jesus."

"Blaspheming, too. Aren't you having a night."

Wilson let it go, realizing House would keep talking if he were provoked.

House stretched his leg out, leaned back with his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and started humming a show tune. Chi-ca-go, Chi-ca-go.

Wilson drove in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"How's this for a change?" House said after a while. "Like old times. Only you need to be wasted too and we need a dart board or a pool table."

The line of Wilson's mouth got thinner and House laughed again. This was too much fun.

A few minutes later, they parked near House's building. As he was helping House out of the car, Wilson said tightly, "It's not detox if you drink up a bunch of other chemicals."

House swayed, gripping his cane. "I'm not detoxing," he slurred. "Anyway, how else could I do this?"

A litany of options flashed in Wilson's mind. "You're not going to let me help you, are you."

House tried to shake his head but stumbled and barely caught himself. "Not when there's a lying—umph, _dy_ing—kid kicking around in the ICU."

Wilson shook his head, hands on his hips. "And you're gonna help him like this?"

"Yeah, tha's kinda what I do." He swayed again. Talking was stupid. "An' since Bugs Moran took away my meds, what else have I got?"

"You're a stubborn jackass."

"Why than' you. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside now."

"Come on," Wilson said, wrapping his coat around himself. "It's cold."

Wilson walked behind him again as he lurched along. Into the building, the elevator. House fished for his keys and dropped them.

"This is absurd," Wilson growled and opened the door with his spare before retrieving House's keys.

House just grinned again and stumbled into his apartment, heading straight for the bedroom, not bothering with the lights.

Wilson flipped them on and dropped House's keys on a table in the doorway.

House had struggled out of his coat and was working on his shirt buttons when Wilson caught up with him.

"I'm not going to get you to eat either, am I."

House leaned against the bed for support, his cane on top of the bed. "Not if you're such a Negative Nancy." He began fiddling with his belt.

"This isn't worth the trouble it's going to cause later."

House shot him a look, dropping his belt on the floor. "The obvious doesn't need help stating itself. I thought we discussed that already." He braced himself and eased onto the bed, mindful of his leg. "Be a dear and toss me that pillow would you," he said.

Wilson grudgingly complied and House stuffed the pillow under his leg.

"Cheers," he said and turned off the light, leaving Wilson standing in the darkness of his bedroom.

* * *

Quotes in this chapter are from Martin Heideggar, "What Is Metaphysics?" _Basic Writings._ and John Berryman, "Dream Song 14" _The Dream Songs_. 


	6. Night One: The Good Times Are Killing Me

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Night: The Good Times are Killing Me**

_Got dirt, got air, got water and I know you can carry on.  
The good times are killing me.  
Enough hair of the dog to make myself an entire rug.  
The good times are killing me.  
Have one, have twenty more "one mores" and oh it does not relent.  
The good times are killing me._

— Modest Mouse, "The Good Times are Killing Me"

Wilson closed the bedroom door and ordered in. Chinese. Egg drop soup for House when he woke up. He watched a Seinfeld rerun with the volume down and tried to sort out the series of events that had gotten him to this place at this time, on House's couch, while House snored in the other room in a booze-induced sleep he would deeply regret later. Everything that was wrong with the situation he had no control over. House was drunk. Sick. Wrecked in all sorts of ways. How had things gotten so out of hand?

They'd been students together. Roommates. House never picked up his socks. One glance around the apartment confirmed that the habit hadn't disappeared with age. Wilson remembered meeting him for the first time. The cockiness, arrogance, wit—none of that had changed. Nor had the fact that House was right all the time. Wilson had found him insufferable for months before he came home one day to find his roommate lapping the dregs of a fifth of whisky, crying.

"Oh shit," House said, covering his face with an arm and turning away. "You. Go away."

Wilson stood awkwardly in the doorway. He'd seen his brother drunk, angry, smashing bottles and throwing chairs more times than he cared to count. And this over-confident ass that was his roommate—he'd seen himself looking like House several times also. Howling at the moon over a girl. It was like looking into a mirror.

"What's her name?" he asked, shutting the door and sitting down on his bed. House had another bottle on the floor next to his bed.

"Does it matter?" he said, dropping the empty bottle.

"I guess not."

They sat in silence for a moment.

House raised his arm and saw two Wilsons regarding him curiously. "Shit. You're still here," he said, falling back on the bed and closing his eyes. "Go away."

Wilson got up and dug around in his small closet, coming up with two shot glasses. He fished a quarter out of his pants, pulled a chair up next to House's bed, opened the second bottle and filled the glasses.

House felt the other man's presence and opened his eyes, taking in the scene before him. "Quarters?" he said. "Aren't you a little old for that?"

"Aren't you a little old to get plastered over a girl?"

"Touché," House said, sitting up. "Flip for it."

When Wilson woke up the next morning House had already left, gone to nurse his hangover in some private place. Wilson lay in bed, head pounding, thinking that he might just get to like this gruff, self-assured egoist who wasn't as impervious to life's little misfortunes as he seemed.

Wilson smiled at the memory, lying on House's couch. Many more nights of one getting wasted over a relationship gone bad and the other joining in passed before they graduated. They drew residencies at different hospitals but kept in touch, one showing up late at night at the other's door with a ruffled collar and pale face. They played tennis together and saw each other through a series of romances. Wilson got married out of the blue one day. House threw him a roaring bachelor party and goaded him all night about the noose he was about to hang himself with. House stood next to him at the altar.

As he settled in to married life, he saw less and less of House but heard more and more about him. One of the great geniuses of his time. Wilson had known that from the first year of med school. He watched House's star rise, his own star rising tangentially. Then came the divorce and long nights of drinking or just sitting silently, both men happy to not be alone. They each received fellowships that kept them in different towns, on different coasts. They eventually found themselves working in the same town again. They took up tennis again. Another marriage. This time House spent the entire bachelor party giving him sex advice. House no longer brought his sorrows to Wilson's door. Then one night Wilson received a frantic phone call. He was scared. He could tell House was scared. He saw House often again and his second wife less and less, but House wasn't there in the same way he had been. He watched his friend dizzy, sweaty, shaking from physical therapy drop onto a bed, turn away, and close himself off from the world. Wilson's second marriage was on the rocks. This time he drank alone.

He married again quickly. House wasn't there to stand next to him this time. He couldn't walk yet.

Wilson was appointed head of oncology just as House was packing up for California.

Wilson heard about him quitting his job. He saw the PPTH drop their incompetent dean and pick a new one. He saw an opening in a department and thought of his friend. He called House late one night and told him about the job, persuaded him to fly back to at least consider it. He spoke to Cuddy about the prestigious Dr. House. Cuddy was pleased to have a name like Greg House in her hospital, not overly concerned that the man was a shadow of his former self. Wilson helped him move back. Julie didn't like him. House came back different, brandishing a pill bottle in front of anyone as if to say, _I dare you. I dare you to question me_. Wilson began writing him scripts. Thirty-six Vicodin started lasting a day or two less here, a week less there. He felt powerless. He felt like intervening. But he'd seen House trying to work through his pain. After being such a stubborn ass and moving John Henry Giles's bed down the hall by himself, Wilson had found him in his office white and shaking, arriving just in time to see his friend pass out.

He didn't doubt that House was in pain. But he doubted whether his friend needed so much medication to control it. He knew about House's habit of pill-popping in front of anyone who annoyed him. He got the sense that House sometimes took a pill or two out of boredom. He was more irritable than he'd ever been, grinding his staff into the ground. But he was still right almost all of the time. Wilson did his best to discourage his friend's drug habit.

Last week, House had been unreachable. His staff came to Wilson one by one. Even Foreman. Cameron came twice. Wilson was still hurting over his brother, his mistakes. House had been totally unapproachable. Wilson lost a patient he'd been treating for two years on Sunday. He couldn't face his wife and his deteriorating marriage. House wouldn't answer his phone or his door. Wilson had gotten angry and lashed out.

And now this stupid bet. He was glad House was committed to seeing it through but this wasn't the way to do it. It shouldn't be like this. He hadn't known it would be like this. House had a case, too, so he was even more committed to working while he came off the narcs. The timing was terrible. It was so irresponsible...but he'd thought House wouldn't take it so hard, that he'd try a different drug, a non-narcotic like Neurontin, or seek alternative methods. The masseuse was hot and that was part of the reason he picked her, but he thought it was worth a try to give House an idea of whether something like that would help him reduce his drug intake.

He sighed. He certainly hadn't expected House to go out and get hammered tonight. The whole thing left him kicking himself on one hand and congratulating himself on the other. It was a shit situation.

That was it, then. How he'd ended up on House's couch, flipping through a medical journal, his half-eaten dinner starting to congeal on the table. Wilson threw the remaining food away and poured himself a small glass of Scotch from House's supply. He stripped down to his undershirt and lay back down on the couch, picking up _Don Quixote_ and beginning to read.

* * *

The sound of a flushing toilet woke Wilson with a jolt. _Don Quixote_ fell to the floor with a thud.

"House?" he said, jumping to his feet.

He pushed the bedroom door open and saw a shaft of light coming from underneath the bathroom door.

"House? Are you alright?" he asked, opening the door.

House was lying on the white tiled floor, his eyes closed, leg propped up on the bathtub wall, panting.

He opened his eyes and saw two Wilsons looking down at him. "Hey," he said between gasps, "you missed most of the show."

Both Wilsons moved and a third joined them. House felt his stomach lurch, cursed and barely pulled himself up in time. This sucked.

Wilson knelt down and put his hands on House's back to support him. He could feel House's stomach angrily emptying itself.

House kept his head in the toilet after the retching stopped and breathed in water and the fumes of Scotch and digestive juices. He was tired. Eventually, he flushed the toilet and Wilson moved to let him lay back down.

"Grand finale," he said, shutting his eyes again. "God, I have to piss."

Wilson noticed the vomit on House's t-shirt and jeans, and went to find a clean one and a pair of sweatpants.

The bathroom tiles were cool against House's back. He reveled in the bliss of an empty, unclenched stomach and for a while forgot his leg in the remaining dizzy wash encasing his brain. His mouth and nose burned.

Wilson dropped the clothes on the floor and knelt to pick House up, slipping his arms under House's shoulders. House grunted and grabbed his leg but let Wilson prop him up against the wall. He was too tired to protest.

He heard water running and then felt a warm washcloth on his face. Wilson was going a little overboard.

"I'm fine," he croaked. "Just let me sit for a while."

Wilson put the washcloth in House's lap and joined him on the floor, cursing himself for not pushing his friend to go to a clinic. Why go through this when rapid detox was available? Sure, House wasn't the best candidate for that treatment, but at a clinic they could at least ease his symptoms. Which he refused to acknowledge. _Damn stubborn ass_.

On the other hand, Wilson didn't feel at all sorry that House was puking himself out of existence. He'd done that to himself. He'd known what would happen. All this for a few hours of sleep? Was it really that bad?

House opened his eyes and looked at Wilson. "Stop thinking so loud."

"Here," Wilson said, handing him the clean shirt.

"Thanks," House said and struggled out of the dirty shirt.

When House had gotten the clean one on, Wilson looked from him to the sweatpants. "Let me pee first," House said.

Wilson stood and offered House his hand.

House looked up at him again.

"Do you think that if I angle it right, I could make it from here?"

"Anything's possible," Wilson said, hand still extended. House grabbed Wilson's hand and put his other hand on the counter top to steady himself. Gradually, with several grunts and swears, Wilson got him standing on his own.

He took a step toward the toilet and went to unzip his fly. "Do you mind?" House asked him. Wilson picked up the sweatpants and went into the bedroom to turn on the light.

With one hand on the wall, House felt the urine pour out of him. He sighed and said to himself, "Fifty bucks down the drain."

House hopped out of the bathroom using the wall for support. In his scramble to get to the toilet he'd neglected to bring his cane. He couldn't bear to put any pressure on his leg.

Sitting carefully on the bed, which Wilson had so kindly turned down, he unbuttoned his jeans and got them around his knees before he stopped and let Wilson help him. He lay down and Wilson put the sweatpants on.

"I hate this," he said, staring at the ceiling, feeling Wilson's hand against his wasted leg.

"Come on," Wilson said, "sit up."

"Don't want to," House mumbled.

Wilson leveled his gaze at him. "Either you sit up, drink something, and eat something, or we're going to the ER."

"No ER," he groaned.

"Then sit up."

Wilson wasn't playing around.

House realized that and reluctantly complied, muttering under his breath.

Wilson left him to settle in.

House was propped up with pillows and had his head back against the wall and his eyes shut when Wilson returned with a glass of water. Predictably, House had no ginger ale, no Sprite or 7-Up, no Gatorade.

"Drink all of it," he said handing House the glass.

"Yes, mother."

He drank it slowly. Wilson got him to eat some soup. Now his stomach was full of liquid it didn't want again. Lovely.

House leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, signaling that he wanted to be left alone.

"I'll be on the couch," Wilson said, _where I always am_. He turned out the light.

As nights went, it hadn't been one of his better ones. There was the usual inability to shut his mind down, the usual chewing over of the day's events until he could no longer stand to be inside himself so much and went to watch whatever paid programming came on in the wee hours. Anything was better than the oblivion of a dark room and the cacophony of a crowded head. But he couldn't get to the TV this time or to anything else outside himself. Living in the present moment was like trying to breathe in a vacuum. He could feel himself dying slowly of suffocation, the time between seconds stretching out into infinity.

He wanted desperately to give over the fire of each breath, that each intake of fresh oxygen produced, to drown in carbon dioxide. Every time his heart thumped, nails screamed against his nerves while all around it the angry mass of flesh burned and stung like fire ants, wasps, thorns, anything angry and sharp.

The secondary effects of withdrawal registered dimly: his head pounded with thickening blood; his stomach was sore and his throat raw from vomiting again, soup and water, into a trash can Wilson had mindfully left within reach, liquids alone hurt more than food, and if he'd heard, Wilson hadn't come because there was nothing he could do; still nauseated to the gills and dizzy from weakness caused by not being able to hold anything down; abdominal muscles cramping relentlessly; sweating still though his shirt was already soaked and he had nothing left to sweat out, surely, but it didn't stop, making him cold, shivering, shaking. Exhausted but he couldn't sleep, couldn't pass out, the pain was intense but had been intense all day and his body had adjusted to the point that it wouldn't concede consciousness as easily.

His body was turning itself inside out and yet the detached, clinical part of him knew that once the physical withdrawal ended, once he was officially clean, pain like the slashing of dull razors would still be there. At each slash of pain his muscles would contract involuntarily, wearing themselves out.

He had never felt worse before in his life.

_Wilson was right, Wilson was right._ He hated to admit it and the thought gave him no comfort. And although anything, anything at all was better than this, he couldn't call out to the man on the couch. At this point, moving was so much worse than not moving and calling for help meant he'd have to move, to intensify the pain.

Despite this, wild schemes rushed through the small portion of his brain not overcome by pain. Cuddy might have given Wilson the Vicodin bottle, arming her spy. He could sneak up quietly and take one, just one. Wilson would never know. No one would ever know. If he could just mute the pain a little, just a little, with anything, anything at all. He thought of the chemicals under his bathroom sink. Drain cleaner would work. Kill off some nerve cells at least. If only he could rest for a while away from the intensity of sensation.

_This is why I take them_, he thought. _Because otherwise I'm a useless mass of jello_.

Sometime—any time—before the sun came up, his neurochemistry began righting itself and between the slow release of dopamine and utter physical exhaustion, he fell into a fitful doze. The horrors of his past—all of his mistakes, everything he'd like to forget—visited him in vivid flashes and he couldn't wake up.

Wilson heard him thrashing and mumbling just like he'd heard him puking earlier. The smallest sounds carried far in the dead of night. He missed his wife—the way they were when they'd just been married. He missed his friend, the way they were so evenly matched on the tennis court: House had better moves but Wilson was quicker.

He checked his watch: 4:38. Enough time had passed for House to swallow his pride. Wilson hauled himself up and dressed. House was sleeping—poorly, yes, but sleeping nonetheless—so he would scrounge some breakfast first.

Sounds from the bedroom ceased as Wilson finished a slice of toast. His mouth felt gritty despite breakfast. No toothbrush. It was time to face Mr. Hyde.

Wilson could smell him from the doorway. House looked like a limp washrag, breathing shallowly.

House listened to him move into the room, navigate the furniture and the clothing and books strewn about the floor.

He didn't acknowledge Wilson when he turned on the light or when he felt him taking his pulse.

He hadn't felt so degraded in years. He wanted to disappear.

House finally conceded the reality of reality and opened his eyes to see Wilson looking at his watch, face pale, eyes baggy, stubble on his chin.

"You look like crap," House said, his voice grating like gravel.

Wilson snorted, feeling House's clammy hand, noting its ashen color.

"How do you feel?" Wilson asked softly.

"How do I feel?" House sneered. "My head hurts. I need a shower." _Bring me a gun with one bullet. I won't miss_.

"Let me see your tongue."

House rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out, making a face.

"Seriously."

House sighed. "Fine," he said and let Wilson look at his tongue.

"Right," said Wilson. "Shall I call an ambulance or will you cooperate?"

"You know, most people get to wallow in misery in the comfort of their own home."

"You're not most people."

"I never let that stop me before."

Wilson shot him a look.

"Okay, okay, I'll be a good boy," he said. "Do I get a lollipop?"

"Sure," Wilson said smiling, happy that House was still himself, that though he looked half dead, he was okay for the time being.

"I'm not sure how we're gonna do this," he said, various scenarios running through his head, none of them good.

"What time is it?" House asked.

"A little before five."

"Good. Let's get it done before the day shift comes on. Cameron would never let me live it down if she saw me now."

"I thought she was angry with you."

"Cameron? Angry? Are we talking about the same person?"

"You know," Wilson said conspiratorially, "I think she likes you. I've seen the way she looks at you."

"Yeah, it's the same look she gives bumsicles on the street."

"Go easy on her. She's got a good heart."

"Okay. But Foreman and Chase wouldn't let me live it down either and they _don't_ have good hearts."

"I thought you were going to be a good boy."

"What's that got to do with my staff?" House asked. "Wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"You're incorrigible."

"And you're just brimming with sunshine this morning."

Wilson shook his head with a grin and picked up House's cane.

House pulled himself up from his slouching position, unable to suppress a groan as his leg protested the movement.

He sat, gripping the sheets, his arms shaking, panting and dizzy as pain washed over him again.

He felt Wilson's hand on his shoulder and heard him say something but couldn't make out what it was.

His resolve was collapsing.

"Which Chinese place did you go to last night?" he asked through his teeth, spots bursting behind his eyelids.

"Wong's. Why?" Wilson's hand clenched tighter on his shoulder. His voice rose with worry. "Are you all right? House?"

"Fine." He gasped. "Their soup...sucks." Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. "Not enough...pepper."

He felt his brain come to the rescue again, releasing endorphins, keeping the pain from pushing him into unconsciousness.

"Ahhhhhw," he said, able to breathe more deeply and concentrating on that. "I hate it when you're right."

"I think I should call an ambulance," Wilson said, his voice bordering on frantic. "You can't walk."

"Yes, I can," House said, still enmeshed in taking deep, slow breaths.

Wilson didn't say anything, but House could hear his retort. He opened his eyes and looked at the other man.

"I can."

"Whatever you say."

"Yeah," House said. "Can you grab me a change of clothes?"

"Why?" Wilson asked, glancing at the closet.

House looked at him. "Hello," he said sarcastically, "dying kid."

"Honestly, you're the most stubborn person on earth."

"Careful or that sunshine is going to spill over and stain my carpet."

Arguing was useless. Wilson found a plastic bag and stuffed underwear, socks, jeans, a belt, a pair of shoes, and two shirts in it.

While Wilson was engaged, House threw the covers back and carefully moved his right leg to the floor by the pants leg, quickly following it with his left. The pain made his chest hurt and his lungs constrict but it wasn't as blinding as before: he was prepared now. He felt dopamine blocking the pain receptors. _Sweet relief_, he thought bitterly. _Good ole Mother Nature_.

Wilson leapt across the room to help him but House held up his hand to stop him.

"I can do this," he said.

His body wanted to sweat but couldn't, leaving him feeling hot and flushed. He looked down at his feet and caught a glimpse of yellow vomit. His stomach jumped. "Ugh."

He felt thoroughly ridiculous.

Wilson nudged his slippers forward and House bent down to put them on, breathing in short gasps again.

He straightened up. "Cane?" he asked.

Wilson put it in his outstretched and watched his friend place his right hand on the bedside table and grip the head of the cane with his left. He leaned forward, ready to catch House when he fell.

House steeled himself and planted his left leg, putting all of his weight on his three working limbs.

Suddenly he was standing.

Suddenly he was swaying and the room was spinning.

Suddenly he wasn't swaying anymore and Wilson was holding him up, arm wrapped around his back.

"We'd be great in a three-legged race," House quipped as he got his bearings again and they began slowly walking out of the bedroom.

Ten minutes later House was resting in the passenger seat of Wilson's car, the pre-dawn glow of streetlights making his eyes hurt, shivering in the night air. Wilson emerged from the shadows of House's building with the plastic bag and House's coat. House contemplated him, how tired he looked, how old. How the wrinkles cut deeper into his forehead than he'd remembered. He felt guilty. He felt rotten and guilty.

Wilson tossed him his coat and House closed his eyes, the glow of streetlights playing orange and black against them, feeling the car move closer to the nexus of his life.


	7. Night One: Whenever You See Fit

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Night: Whenever You See Fit**

_You and me  
Whenever we go wrong. _

_Wake up early and you'll live to regret it  
Talking on the telephone  
Looking at yourself like you're all alone  
Everything's wrong  
Go to be early and you'll talk to your pillow  
And you'll wake up early and you'll live to regret it_

_Tell the truth  
Everyone once in a while_

_Talking on the telephone  
Looking at ourselves like we're all alone  
Acting like we are our own best friend  
And everything you ever said  
Every thought I ever meant I ever did  
Wake up early and you'll live to regret_

—Modest Mouse and 764-Hero, "Whenever You See Fit"

The hospital was quiet and the night shift yawning when Wilson, wearing his lab coat, escorted House to the elevator and then into his office.

Wilson kept his head down and moved as fast as House would let him, trying to avoid recognition.

It wasn't that he didn't like his staff—on the contrary. Rather, he knew House wanted to stay under the radar as much as possible.

As he settled House onto the couch in his office, which had served as a bed many a night over the years, and helped him out of his coat, he glanced over his friend, trying to process what he saw. Eyes closed, his face a mask of pain, gasping for breath, House groaned softly as he lay back and Wilson slipped a pillow under his leg. He hadn't said a word during the trip. Wilson knew he was conserving his energy, but he was worried nonetheless.

He covered House with a blanket, drew the blinds on his glass house, and went to borrow some supplies.

One of the night nurses saw him come out of his office, face set but haggard and said, "Dr. Wilson? Are you okay?"

He stopped and smiled at her. "Yes, Glenda, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Do you need any help?"

So she'd seen him dragging House around. "No, thank you." _It's just that my idiot friend here is trying to detox on his own and has gotten himself dehydrated_. He asked her about a patient instead, eager to snuff out her curiosity.

After they'd chatted a moment, Wilson hurried down the hall as quickly as he could without attracting more suspicion.

He managed to find the necessary equipment and take it back to his office without anyone noticing.

House was white as a sheet when he returned. If not for the shaking, Wilson would've sworn he was asleep. Pulling a chair over to the couch, Wilson took his friend's hand.

"Hey," he said softly. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," House whispered.

Wilson snapped on a pair of gloves and turned House's forearm over.

"Wait," he rasped. Wilson could see his muscles tighten and he opened his eyes to a squint. "Does this constitute cheating?"

"No," Wilson said quietly. "No, it doesn't. What you did last night might but I won't tell." He tried to smile.

House didn't notice.

"Okay," he said, reassured, relaxing again.

The alcohol pad was cool on his skin and he felt a shiver pass through him. He didn't flinch as the needle pierced his vein, anticipating instead what it would bring. Seconds later he felt the cool, life-giving liquid enter his arm and begin to diffuse. He sighed happily, forgetting his leg for a moment, the slightly metallic taste of IV fluid filling his mouth. He couldn't remember ever being this dehydrated before.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely as Wilson taped the needle in place.

Wilson said nothing. He noticed House was shivering and went to find another blanket.

When he got back, House was breathing softly and steadily: asleep. Wilson covered him with the second blanket and went to his desk to do some paperwork.

* * *

He was sailing. The sky was beautiful. The ocean was beautiful. The wind was steady. The sun felt good on his back. He had no limp. Wilson was there, laughing. He looked much younger. The spray hit them and they both laughed. Birds cawed overhead. Hundreds of other boats dotted the sea with their white sails.

Then a forceful wave hit the craft and he watched Wilson fall into the sea. He wanted to move, to dive in, to do anything, but he couldn't. The sky was black, the waves rough, the other boats gone. He heard screaming. The jolt of the waves made him feel sick. That wasn't right. He had solid sea legs. He heard more screaming and the mast broke and he fell.

His leg jerked involuntarily and suddenly he was awake again, propelled back into reality.

Pain.

He tried to concentrate on something else. His mouth tasted funny. He heard papers shuffling and someone breathing. The light was low, barely registering against his closed eyes. He breathed in and identified the scent as that of Wilson's office. _Oh yeah_, he thought and suddenly felt very stupid and very embarrassed. And, for some reason, very angry.

It worried him a little, waking up and not immediately knowing where he was. That just didn't happen to him, not ever. He was angry at feeling worried, angry at the fear.

He moved without thinking and heard a chair roll back and Wilson stand up. He sighed to himself. _Here it comes_.

He heard Wilson move and then sit next to him.

"Quit playing possum," Wilson said.

"Quit playing doctor," House countered and finally opened his eyes.

He could see the pre-dawn violet sky through the blinds behind Wilson. So he hadn't been out that long. Good.

"How're you feeling?" Wilson asked.

House hated that question. He didn't ask it himself and he didn't like answering it.

"I'm fine," he said defiantly and started to sit up.

Wilson saw the stubborn look in his eye.

"Oh come on," he said, "you're not fine. In no way are you fine."

"No," House said, pushing himself up with his elbows, "I'm fine."

"Come off it!" Wilson snarled. "You only feel fine because you've had a bag of fluids and you know it."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't make me any less okay."

"It does, actually," Wilson retorted. "That's exactly what it does."

Wilson leveled a gaze at him and, his voice laced with bitter irony, said, "You feel like breakfast?"

House blanched. "No," said softly, feeling his stomach start to churn at the thought.

"Then you're not fine," Wilson said and started to reach into his pocket.

"Yes, I am," House said, refusing to back down. "I just drank too much last night. It happens. That's all."

"No, it isn't, and you know it. Dammit, Greg, you know it."

Wilson had him, but he wouldn't be called out so easily. He wouldn't admit it.

"I hate it when you call me 'Greg'," he said.

"Quit changing the subject."

Wilson had had enough. He pulled a syringe out of his pocket that he'd nicked earlier with the IV solution.

"What's that?" House asked, eyeing the syringe suspiciously, still perched on his elbows. He hated to admit it but his leg hurt like hell. He knew wasn't going anywhere for a while. But he wasn't about to lose to Cuddy over a shit night in the can.

"Phenergan," Wilson said.

House gave him a look.

Pre-empting his question, Wilson said, "It's not cheating."

"I'm _fine_," House insisted.

"Then let me get you a breakfast tray."

"I'm not hungry," House said. "That doesn't mean anything except that I'm not hungry. It's not a crime."

Wilson sputtered. "Were you there last night?"

"Yes, I was," House said, his voice steely. "I just drank too much. I'd like to see you jump all over breakfast with a hangover."

"No," Wilson said. "You didn't just drink too much." He moved to pick up the injection port.

House gripped the IV tube with his left hand. "You push that and I rip this out," he said.

"You wouldn't."

"Watch me."

They stared at each other, neither wavering.

"It's like this," Wilson said after a while. "Either you take this and eat something or I'm admitting you."

Now it was House's turn to say it. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"I'd sign out AMA before anyone could do anything," House said.

Wilson sighed and slumped in the chair.

"Why," he said softly. "Why are you doing this?"

House sighed too. It was stupid and he knew it. Why was he fighting Wilson so hard? He felt better after the nap and the fluids. Wilson had done that. He'd been there all night. He was a good friend.

But House just couldn't overcome his dislike of being helped by anyone. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why was that so hard? He certainly didn't encourage sympathy so he wasn't bringing it on himself…so _why_?

He looked at Wilson. The man had been through a lot lately and didn't need any extra bullshit added on.

He sighed again.

"Fine," he said. "Do it."

Wilson was wise enough to say nothing.

House lay back and Wilson uncapped the syringe.

He felt the drug burning as it entered his arm. Wilson pushed it slowly. It hit him and he felt dizzy and sleepy, tasting it on his tongue. Unable to resist the force of the drug, he fell into a doze.

Wilson watched him and worried. House had gone down too easily. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Maybe he should get a nurse and admit House before he woke up again.

He thought about it.

No.

He couldn't.

House would never forgive him.

The bag above his head was nearly empty.

He couldn't.

He wouldn't.

So instead he snuck off to supply again, nicked another bag, hung it, and went back to his paperwork.

* * *

When House woke up again, Wilson was gone and early morning sunlight was creeping through the blinds. He had to pee like mad. He looked up and saw that the bag was 1/3 full...funny, because he remembered it being almost empty. His leg still hurt but otherwise he felt better than he had since Sunday.

Rubbing his face with his hands to get rid of sleep, he threw off the covers and sat up slowly, pulling his leg off the couch and setting it on the floor. The action hurt. His leg tensed, filled with stiffness, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. The pain was unbelievable after the relative peace of the last hour or two. But his bladder wasn't going to wait.

He stood carefully, found his cane leaning against the sofa and limped off to the bathroom adjoining Wilson's office, IV pole in tow. He hated dragging the thing around but the alternative was much worse and he'd be damned if he'd resort to it while he could still walk.

His urine was little more than water. _This is what it's come to_, he thought. _Tethered to a damn pole, pissing water_. At that moment he thoroughly disgusted himself.

He flushed and washed his hands, grateful to Wilson for sticking him in the arm instead of the hand where it would be more noticeable. _He really is a good friend_. _Contentious_.

He caught his reflection in the mirror for a moment. He looked a helluva lot better than he had the day before. Ready to face the world almost.

He settled back on to the couch, breathing quickly from the pain of movement.

Just as he'd gotten his breathing back to normal and was beginning to get bored, Wilson walked in with three styrofoam boxes.

Wilson threw a quick glance at House as he put the boxes on his desk but said nothing.

_Shit_, House thought, remembering how he had treated Wilson earlier. He broke the silence.

"Smells good," he ventured.

Wilson smiled tentatively. "Yeah," he said. "They don't do lunch or dinner very well, but breakfast isn't that bad."

"Listen," House said, "about earlier-"

Wilson cut him off tersely, "It's fine."

He picked up the boxes and sat down in the chair next to House. He opened the first one; it contained two bottles of juice, plasticware, and napkins.

"Orange or apple?" he asked.

"Apple," House said.

Wilson wordlessly handed him the bottle of apple juice and a box.

House opened it and realized that he was very hungry. Nothing was missing. He greedily started in.

They ate in silence.

Halfway through the meal House broke the silence.

"Time for rounds yet?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"Nah."

"You call Julie?"

"Nah."

"You gonna call her?"

"What for? She probably didn't even notice."

House let the matter drop, not willing to push his friend into arguing again.

Julie was a sore subject anyway. House didn't know why Wilson kept getting married. What was it about marriage? Why wasn't he content to have a long-time girlfriend and keep it at that? He'd never asked and he never planned to ask. It wasn't something they should discuss. Wouldn't feel right.

House finished eating and leaned back, hands on his stomach. "Oh, that was good," he said.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "They know how to do breakfast."

House gestured at the IV. "You mind unhooking me?" he asked.

"Sure," Wilson said, putting the empty bottles and boxes in the trash can.

"Be right back," he said leaving.

While he was gone House pulled the tape off his arm. The bag was nearly empty. He realized that he had to pee again.

Wilson came back and pulled the needle out, taping a cotton ball in place over the wound. He went out to dispose of the needle.

"Want a shower?" he asked when he got back.

"Yeah," House said. The shower facilities weren't exactly the best around but he needed one. He could smell himself. He wrinkled his nose. He definitely needed a shower.

"Me too," Wilson said and tossed House the plastic bag he'd brought from the apartment. Then he fished a change of clothes for himself out of the bottom desk drawer.

Wilson kept pace with House, taking pains to avoid noticing any winces or grimaces. He'd had enough of that for one day.

Wilson showered here more often than he'd like to admit. All three stalls were handicapped accessible with a small ledge to sit on and a bar for support. He had never noticed that before but he was glad that there'd be no argument over it.

They were in the middle of undressing when House said dryly, "Do you find this vaguely homoerotic?"

"What? You don't shower with other guys on a regular basis? You're missing out."

House grinned and Wilson tossed him a towel and a bar of soap.

"Rounds in half an hour," Wilson said turning on the shower. "Get to it."

The hot water on his skin felt as good as some sleep and a stomach full of breakfast. Yesterday washed off him and though his leg radiated waves of pain and he had to hook his arm around the bar to stay standing while he soaped himself, he felt pretty good. It was nice, feeling pretty good. He smiled to himself and turned the hot water up.

In the other stall, Wilson moaned softly as he came. It was as automatic as adjusting the temperature of the water. Mood had nothing to do with it. A few images, that was all it took. The masseuse. Yes. It kept him relaxed. He went about soaping himself.

House was struggling into a pair of jeans when Wilson stepped out of the shower.

"You should call her," he said as Wilson pulled on an undershirt.

"Yeah, maybe," he said.

"Why not?" House asked. "What've you got to lose?"

"Self-respect," Wilson replied. "Why don't you call her? She liked you."

"She was paid to like me," House said fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. Wilson had chosen a dark gray one for him. Good choice.

Wilson towel-dried his hair. "Your jacket's in my office," he said.

House tied his shoes, his leg unhappy with him bending over it. He grunted in response.

Wilson watched him stand carefully and wondered briefly about House's cane on the slick tile floor. He tried to keep the observation to himself, picking up his dirty clothes and following House into the hall.

"Lunch?" Wilson asked when they were back in his office.

House slipped on his jacket. "Yeah."

Wilson put the dirty clothes in his bag as House left and turned his mind to the morning's rounds.


	8. Day Three: Sisyphus

**Title: **Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer**: These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Queens of the Stone Age, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

* * *

**Day Three: Sisyphus  
**

"But one day the 'why' arises and everything begins in that weariness... Weariness comes at the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It awakens consciousness and provokes what follows. What follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the definitive awakening. At the end of the awakening comes, in time, the consequence: suicide or recovery.  
Likewise and during every day of an unillustrious life, time carries us. But a moment always comes when we have to carry it. We live on the future: 'tomorrow,' 'later on,' 'when you have made your way'... Such irrelevances are wonderful, for, after all, it's a matter of dying. Yet a day comes when a man notices...that he is thirty. He admits that he stands at a certain point on a curve that he acknowledges having to travel to its end sic. He belongs to time, and by the horror that seizes him, he recognizes his worst enemy. Tomorrow, he was longing for tomorrow, whereas everything in him ought to reject it.  
Likewise the stranger who at certain seconds comes to meet us in a mirror, the familiar and yet alarming brother we encounter in our own photographs is also the absurd.  
Forever I shall be a stranger to myself."

—Albert Camus, _The Myth of Sisyphus_

When his ducklings came back from rounds, House had been turning over the problem of the kid's liver in his head for an hour or so. Well, not quite: he'd thought about it for a good fifteen minutes and spent the next forty-five double checking and waiting.

Walking back to his office had hurt and left him breathless and tense with pain but he still felt pretty good. As the hour wore on, though, the pain didn't ease up any and he started sweating lightly. Perhaps the one virtue of having his stomach turn itself inside out was that he felt the pain in his leg less. Now that it was the only pain left, it took over forcefully and he couldn't help but feel it more and more.

_When_ would they show up so he could give them their orders and turn on the TV to divert his mind?

Finally they came in and he heard them sit. He pushed himself up, gritting his teeth, and stood still for a moment panting with effort.

That's when he heard Foreman pipe up.

"You know, House shouldn't even be here."

House sniffed to himself. Foreman and his power-plays.

He heard Chase next. "Because he said something inappropriate? If we sent him home every time he did that we wouldn't need this office."

_True_.

"He's in pain," Cameron said.

_Oh poor him. Take him out back and put him down_.

He could hear Foreman becoming disgruntled.

"What does the man have to do to piss you off?" he said.

Predictably, Cameron leapt to his defense again. "He's been without pain relief for over 70 hours."

_No shit_.

"Exactly," Foreman said. "He's detoxing, can't you see he's out of his mind?"

_Detoxing my ass_, House thought. _Time to put a stop to this_. He gathered himself up and walked into the doorway, grateful he didn't look as bad as he had earlier. Then Foreman would be right and he couldn't stand for that to happen.

"That's what they said about Manson," he said, leaning on the door frame.

They all looked down. Caught.

"Do you want to continue talking about me or should we discuss what the liver damage tells us?"

No one said anything.

He put on a high-toned narrative voice. "I was born in a log cabin in Illinois..."

Cameron recovered first. "Hemolytic anemia doesn't cause liver damage," she said. "Add the fact he's coughing blood, you've got three of the indicators of organ-threatening lupus."

_Yes, but_: "It's moving too fast. Could be Hepatitis E."

He limped quickly across the room to lean on the sink. Pain from his leg was pounding on his brain, making it difficult to concentrate. He felt dizzy and tried to breathe slowly to control the shoots of pain or at least mask them. He'd swallow glass before he gave Foreman the slightest inkling that he was right.

Foreman jumped to dispel House's hypothesis. "There's only been one case of Hep E originating in the U.S. since-"

"His history," House interrupted, breathing through the pain, "says he's been in and out of the country four times in the last year." Holy God, the pain was worse than he'd thought it could be. He gripped the sink tightly, trying not to sway.

"You really think he's got Hep E?" Foreman asked skeptically.

_I'm surrounded by idiots_.

"No," he said. "I think lupus is _way_ more likely." How much hand-holding did they need!

"All right," Cameron said, "I'll start IV cytoxan and plasma-apheresis."

_Don't you listen? _"No, we should rule out Hep E," he said. Breathe in, breathe out.

Foreman again. "You just said it wasn't Hep E."

_Does no one listen at all? _"No, I said lupus is way more likely but if we treat for lupus and it is Hep E..."

"He's toast," Chase finished.

"Exactly," House said. They were starting to get it.

Cameron again. _And Wilson calls _me _stubborn_. "But there isn't a treatment for Hepatitis E. Either he'll get better on his own or he'll continue to deteriorate."

_Gee, what a revelation_."Yeah. I went to medical school too."

They weren't getting it. Damn. He couldn't stand much longer. "Start him on solumedrol," he said.

One of them protested again. "If he's got Hep E that's only going to make him worse."

Argh. _Come _on _kids, think! _"Not as much," he said, realizing he'd have to spell it out for them. "It's Goldilocks people. It won't hurt him so much that it'll kill him and it won't hurt him so little that we can't tell." Hmm. "It'll hurt him just right. And if it does nothing..."

"We'll know it's not Hep E and can treating for lupus."

_Finally_."Now watch me do while drinking a glass of water."

"What'll we tell the dad? We think your kid has lupus so we're going to treat him for Hepatitis E. And oh yeah, if it really is Hep E we're not giving him Hep E medication, so it's going to make him worse, not better?"

Damn Foreman. Damn parents. What was so hard about jumping when he said jump?

"You think he'll go for that?" he said.

"So you want us to lie?" Damn Cameron. Damn ethics.

"No," he said looking at her. "I want _you_ to lie."

"Why me?" Cameron asked.

"Because he trusts you," he said and walked out. Let them think on it all they wanted, he needed to sit _now_.

Back in his office he lowered himself into the chair, gasping, sweating, shaking, trying not to groan as he leaned his head back and shut his eyes.

Two more days of this.

How would he make it?

Somehow.

Damn Cuddy.

He barely heard them leave, starting to shiver as the sweat cooled him off.

A minute passed.

Two.

He didn't move.

* * *

_I hurt myself today  
To see if I still feel  
I focus on the pain  
The only thing that's real._

—Johnny Cash, "Hurt" (NIN cover)

The pain escalated.

Why?

Why worse?

Why?

No answer.

Because he knew why. The universe didn't feel obliged to tell him what he already knew.

Addict.

Of course he knew he was addicted. It was impossible to take a physically-addicting drug for so many years without becoming addicted to it. But addiction was physical and only worrisome insofar as it was a physical problem which it wasn't. This wasn't about addiction, anyway. It was about dependence. Psychological need.

And somewhere deep down he knew that he was dependent. That the pain scared the shit out of him and the idea of having his meds taken away evoked the same reaction.

But there was knowing it and there was _knowing _it.

He knew this too.

It made no difference.

Dependent, not dependent.

No difference at all.

Because no drugs meant no work, no life.

Just this: sitting, entire body rigid with pain, unable to think, unable to concentrate, unwilling to keep breathing because it meant more feeling, more pain, more driving agony, unwilling even to concede the bet and speed relief to his leg because that meant getting up, moving, more and more pain, and right now it was too much, too much to live.

And yet still he breathed, still felt, still lived, continued. Seconds hung in the air, filling it, impotent, closing in on him, until they were sixty and then they began again. And this motion of minutes hung in the air also, incessant, allowing no respite.

He missed being bored. He missed filling the seconds with something instead of them filling him with nothing but the linear expanse of time.

He was dog tired. Thinking it, that phrase, feeling its absurdity—he was too far gone to even want to laugh at something so ludicrous. Ludicrous had no meaning anymore.

His hair was soaked with sweat, undershirt too, but he kept his jacket on. If he had thought about it, he would have realized that he kept it on because he was cold. His muscles were too tired to shake or shiver anymore. Light glinted off the silver flask on his desk. Empty. God, he couldn't even get drunk anymore.

Wilson had brought him lunch in a box at 11:45 saying that he had to skip lunch for some reason or another. Patient. Something. The phenergan had long since worn off and he wasn't hungry but he ate it anyway. He was so nauseous that having something to throw up would make him feel better. A tiny part of his brain noted the masochism inherent in such an act. Masochist. Right. He just loved this, every second of it.

He ate mechanically, not tasting anything, not noticing what it was. Didn't matter.

It stayed down for thirty long minutes that he spent with his head resting on his desk, arms wrapped around his mid-section, swallowing furiously, putting it off for as long as possible. It was thirty minutes that he didn't spend biting back screams over his leg and in that sense it was a good thirty minutes. When he finally did let himself throw up, he wasn't thinking about anything but that. His leg ceased to exist for those seconds. It was nice. And he felt good for about five minutes afterward. His stomach was sore but empty and he didn't feel nauseous anymore.

In the time before the pain and nausea returned he wondered idly who, if they saw him now, would possibly think that this was preferable to letting him have his pills. He could think of someone. Shit. What kind of sick world was he living in?

Time passed.

He pulled the flask out of the bottom desk drawer. It was full. He'd used it for a while a few years ago before he got the portable TV or knew where the best lounges were. Another cure for boredom. He used to carry it in his jacket all the time, refilling it at night, until one day when he'd taken two Vicodin but only remembered taking one and drank more than he should have. Wilson found him and performed another clandestine procedure to snap him out of it. After that the flask had ended up in his desk and he hadn't thought about it since then. Thank God Cuddy'd never found out.

He stared at it for a long time, feeling the pain ramp up inch by inch, seeing himself staring back in its distorted mirror. Finally the pain became too much again and he gulped down half of it, wanting to feel its effects as soon as possible but also wanting to save some for later because he knew later would come sooner than he thought.

He felt his throat burn, his blood thin out, the pain recede, his body start to feel fuzzy and far away; he felt it hit his brain and he felt happy all of sudden and smiled; he felt his head drop back onto the desktop and he felt like sleeping and not caring when or if he ever woke up again.

But he woke up pretty quickly, vomiting again. Well. That's what he'd left the other half for.

He felt hazy and drunk and empty for a while again.

He felt the pain sober him up.

He felt it intensify and he felt himself reaching his breaking point again.

Rinse.

Repeat.

And he ended up where he was now, staring at the empty flask, the pain way past unbearable yet again and nothing to drink it away with.

What to do, what to do.

Nothing.

Nothing to do but wait.

He felt utterly helpless, utterly dominated by pain.

He felt tears running down his face. He didn't care anymore—who saw, who found him like this. He buried his head in his arms and let himself break down.

Emotional upheaval displaced the ever-present pain for a while, but it came back as it always did.

Now something had to happen.

If nothing happened, if this continued, he would die.

He needed a better way of making himself hurt—one that would last longer, kill the pain better, that wouldn't be so taxing on his digestive system. God knew he didn't _like_ throwing up all the time.

He looked around his office for that better way. He needed something that would allow him to keep mental focus later. Head injuries were out. His leg was the problem and he needed to keep the other one intact in order to move around. His lower half was out too. That didn't leave much.

Pain shot through his leg again and his tired muscles clenched. It was all too much.

His eyes lit on the mortar and pestle. Cast iron. Perfect.

He grasped the pestle with his right hand, hearing it grind against the mortar, metal on metal, feeling its weight. Two, maybe three pounds. He tapped it against the glass. Yes, it would do.

But he didn't want to do it. As much as it would make his leg feel like nothing at all, as much relief as it would provide, he didn't want to do it. He rested his head on top of it. The cool metal felt good against his skin.

He would do it.

He tapped it on the table again.

He would do it now.

One.

Tap.

Two.

Tap.

Three.

He hadn't really aimed. It hit his ring finger. And oh did it work. He felt better immediately. Pain rushed up his arm. His leg didn't register anymore.

He leaned back, cradling his hand.

He felt good.

His eyes closed despite the sunlight and he slipped off.

* * *

Cameron was furious. At House mostly. But also at herself because she'd actually contemplated going through with it. And now the father wouldn't go along with House's recommendation and she was going to relay the message and tell him off as best she could.

She wasn't prepared for what she saw when she stormed into his office.

"The father—oh my God, Dr. House, are you all right?"

She'd never actually seen him look good—he always looked tired or like he was hurting—but she'd never seen him look this bad either. She hadn't knocked—she was beyond knocking as angry as she was—and she caught him half-asleep, pale, exhausted, holding his left arm.

He jumped slightly and registered that she was in the room. She'd brought the look with her. That damned look.

He ignored her question. "What about the father? How did it go?"

Cameron looked at him like he'd just asked her for a lap dance but answered his question.

"He won't consent to the solumedrol."

"And why not?"

Cameron hesitated. "Because I couldn't lie to him."

_Great_, House thought. "So...what? He's going to sit back and watch his son die? Not likely. What are you not telling me?"

"Nothing," she said defensively. "I told him I needed to check with you first."

"Well, go back and tell him there's no other option. We're not going to treat him for lupus until we know it's not Hep E."

She paused.

"Are you sure you should be here?"

"Why not?" House said. "I'm not the one who just screwed up."

Cameron ignored him and stepped closer.

"What happened to your arm?" she asked, craning her neck to get a better look at it over his desk.

"I fell," he said wryly.

"Let me see."

"What happened to my hand is less important than ruling out Hep E. Go talk to the dad again. We're losing time."

She could see from where she was that his fingers were deeply bruised.

"Fine," she said, "but I'm calling Dr. Wilson."

"Whatever," he replied. "Just go."

She left. He sighed. The spy cometh yet again.

* * *

Wilson, too, walked in without knocking.

"Cameron said you needed to see me," he said. He was shocked at how bad House looked but tried to remain nonplussed. "What's up?"

"Had a little accident," House said, holding his left arm up so Wilson could see it.

Wilson crossed the room and took House's hand in his own.

"Oww," House whined.

"Can you move your fingers for me?" Wilson asked.

"I suppose I could but I don't want to."

"Looks pretty bad," he said. "Come down to the clinic with me and we'll x-ray it."

"The clinic. Agh. I thought I'd have four and a half weeks free from that place."

"Yeah, well, this I can't do in my office."

"Fine," he said and began the difficult process of standing without his left hand to help him.

Wilson restrained himself from offering House a hand.

They went down to the clinic.

House leaned against the wall while Wilson went to inform Cuddy that they'd be taking the next available room. The clinic was packed with hacking people. The height of flu season. And he'd miss out on it. Yes!

He saw Cuddy look around Wilson through the glass of her office and find him. She gave him a smoldering look and marched out of her office toward him despite Wilson's obvious pleas for her to stop.

_The wicked witch rides again_. He wanted to sit but he didn't want Cuddy to see him wanting to sit. He tried not to lean too heavily on the wall.

"I thought you hated it down here," she said when she reached him.

Wilson gave him an apologetic shrug behind her back.

"I do."

"Then why are you here?"

He held up his hand, wishing he could bend his fingers enough to flip her off.

She glanced at it. "Looks fine to me."

Wilson stepped in. "Come on-"

House interrupted him. "I didn't ask for this," he said. "I'm here against my will." He gestured toward Wilson.

"Then why don't you leave," she challenged.

"Fine," he said, straightening up. "I will."

Wilson stepped forward and put a hand on House's chest. "No." He looked back and forth between House and Cuddy who were trying to kill each other with glares. "He needs an x-ray."

Cuddy and House continued to stare at one another until she finally said to Wilson, "Make it quick," and stalked off.

"What is it with you two?" Wilson asked as he steered House into an empty room.

He started with a neutral topic as he set House up for the x-ray.

"How's the kid?"

"Losing time," House said, wincing as he tried to spread his fingers out for the x-ray. The pestle had been a good choice. He hadn't thought about his leg in a while, not with every nerve in his arm looping pain like a closed circuit. Yeah. This was much better than borderline bulimia.

"The dad's a major pain the ass. Won't consent to treatment."

"What treatment?"

"Solumedrol for a rule-out Hep-E."

Wilson snorted. "Even _I_ think that's pushing it."

"Oh ye of little faith."

They waited for the x-ray to develop.

After a few minutes, Wilson asked the dreaded question. "Did you eat?"

"Why ask _me_ that?" House said, sitting on the edge of the exam table, wishing he didn't want to lie down on it and take a nap so badly. "You're the one who skipped lunch."

Wilson shrugged, trying not to pay too much attention to the way House looked and moved. "I ate on the go."

"Such a wise practice, doctor," House replied and let it drop.

Wilson persisted. "Did you?" he asked.

"God, you're worse than my mother and both of my grandmothers combined," House griped.

Wilson gave him a look.

House sighed. "Yes." Damn questions. "Do you want to feel my forehead while you're at it, maybe start clucking like an old hen? This is ridiculous. I'm forty-five years old for Christ's sake."

"And yet you act like you're two," Wilson said.

"That's because everyone around me _is _two," House grumbled.

"You keep it down?" Wilson asked, tone clipped.

House sighed. "No," he said quietly.

"You can't go on like this," Wilson said.

"I don't have a choice," House said lightly.

Wilson gave him the 'don't bullshit me' stare. "Yes, you do," he said. _You can walk out that door and end this right now_, his eyes said.

House glared back at him. "No way," he said. "Not happening. If I can do three days of this I can sure as hell do two more."

"And what about the kid?" Wilson said, hands on his hips, posture confrontational, voice bordering on outright anger. "If you make a mistake, is it worth his life?"

"I don't make mistakes," House snapped. God, his hand was killing him. "I thought you'd be happy about this. You've been bugging me for years about my meds."

"I'm happy you're trying but this isn't the best way to come off narcotics," Wilson said. As if House didn't already know it. "Have you tried Neurontin? Cuddy doesn't have to know."

"Doesn't work," House said, "Can't concentrate."

"Tried it with Tegretol?" Wilson pressed.

"Same," House said.

"Massage help?" Wilson asked, grasping at straws now.

House sighed. "Not really," he said tiredly. Then he looked up with a small smile. "Thanks, though. She was hot."

Wilson shrugged. "Worth a try," he said, returning the smile. He looked at his watch. "X-ray should be done," he said and went to retrieve it.

House looked at his hand.

No piano for a while.

Was it worth it?

Yeah.

It was worth it.

Wilson put the x-ray on the board and started to read it.

"I think..." he said after a while, "it's broken." Now he could ask the question that he'd wanted to ask for over half an hour. "What did you do?" He had a good idea of what House had done, but he wanted to hear what House would say.

"Accidentally closed the car door on it."

_Lame excuse_, Wilson thought. _Your car isn't even here_. "No," he said, examining House's hand again. "Door would've broken the skin. This looks like something hard and smooth smashed it."

"I want my lawyer," House said pitifully.

Okay. Enough. He'd point to the obvious. "The brain has a gating mechanism for pain," he said. "Registers the most severe injury and blocks out the others." Wilson felt bad, both sympathetic and guilty. He couldn't imagine the kind of pain that would lead one to break one's own fingers. "Did it work?"

"Well, my hand hurts like hell," House said. He sighed. _Might as well admit it, he already knows_. "Yeah, I feel much better."

Wilson turned to grab a splint out of the supply drawer.

House stopped him. "Don't splint it," he said miserably. "I want to be able to bang it against the wall if I need to administer another dose." _Shit_, Wilson thought. _Shit_. "Just...tape it up," House said.

Wilson tossed the splint aside just as Cuddy swept in, irate.

"Why did you tell Cameron to lie to Mr. Foster?"

House ignored her. "Make it tight will you," he said to Wilson. He wished she'd go away. She had nothing to say that would interest him in the slightest. Moreover, she was in a yelling mood he could tell and he didn't feel like dealing with her. Not that he ever did, but today was an extra special exception.

"Answer me," she said.

_Go to hell_. He wanted to say it but not only would it solve nothing, he couldn't just walk away from her at the moment. Wilson took his hand and started taping his fingers. "Nothing I could say is going to change," _tight, God, tight_, "how you feel and nothing could come out of your reaction that is going to change what I plan to do, so I prefer to say nothing."

Perfectly logical. Now she crawl back into her nicely-decorated hole and leave him to nurse his broken bones.

She wasn't leaving. She was saying something again.

"So, that was just you saying nothing."

Why no sympathy for the guy with the purple fingers?

"Uh-huh."

_Now leave_.

"The guy is furious."

_Duh_. "And scared."

"So what are you gonna do?" she said. "The father is insisting on the lupus treatment."

"Yeah, Cameron told me and I told her to tell him no."

_He'll come around_. _It's _not _lupus._

"Well, you can't just sit back and let the kid die," she said.

"Neither can the father," he countered.

Cuddy sniffed. "So that's your plan?" she said. "You're gonna play chicken with the kid's life?"

_Not how I would've put it, but it works_."Well, he's the dad. I should win easily."

"Take the week off," she said dismissively.

He was exasperated at this and not a little annoyed. "What," he said, "cause I lied to a patient?" _I lie to them, they lie to me, it's how we get things done_.

He could see she needed it spelled out for her. "I take risks," he said. "Sometimes patients die. But not taking risks causes more patients to die so I guess my biggest problem is being cursed with the ability to do the math."

Wilson finished taping his fingers. The nerves didn't like having the bones taped together and sent more shots of pain up his arm. He held it close to his body, unwilling to exacerbate it unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.

Cameron walked in like Cuddy had, without knocking. _Was everyone here born in a barn?_ The tiny room was crowded and the heat from too many bodies, that special smell of hospital disinfectant, and the pain running up and down his arm, especially the pain, made him feel sick again. Surely this must be a pouch in one of Dante's levels of hell. Probably the one he'd end up in. Except there'd by whining patients there too.

"I told him that we wouldn't treat him for the lupus until-"

_Not important, skip it_. He needed to get away from the press of bodies. He interrupted her, "What'd he say?"

"He said he wanted to transfer Keith to another hospital." _Predictable_.

"He's not stable enough, he'd never make it through the door," Cuddy said. _Also predictable_.

"That's what I told him," Cameron said.

"And that's when he caved."

"Yeah," Cameron said. _Three for three_. "He agreed to do it your way."

_That always happens_. _It's only simple math_. "Two plus two equals four," he said, standing and getting out the door as quickly as possible. He needed to breathe. He needed to not feel this way anymore.

* * *

He got back to his office in what seemed to be his 'normal' physical state: panting, sweating, hurting, exhausted. But he also felt vindicated and that was a good feeling. On the other hand, now he'd have to wait another hour for the solumedrol to do its work.

What the _hell_ was he supposed to do for the next hour?

His fingers and arm still hurt enough that he couldn't feel his leg which meant that he could concentrate on something.

General Hospital was already over.

Oprah?

No.

He'd had enough of whining parents for one day and enough drama in general for a long, long time.

Internet?

No, couldn't type.

What else was on TV...it was Wednesday, hump day. What a useless day.

He was just beginning to wonder about the virtues of changing to the Gregorian calendar when Wilson opened the door and tossed something at him, "Catch."

House watched the object sail to his right and hit the floor. "Bad throw," he said. "Stick with your day job, you'd never make it in the majors. Maybe with the Nationals but they won't last a year and you'd get your ass kicked by Orioles fans. And that's just sad. They're _Orioles_ fans."

Wilson shrugged and House picked the object up. An ice pack. He tossed it back to Wilson. "Don't want them numb," he said.

Wilson caught it. "You want them swollen instead?"

"No, I want to feel them in all their power and glory. That _was_ kinda the point."

Wilson tossed the bag of ice back at House and he caught it this time.

"Trust me," Wilson said turning to leave and putting the door between him and House so House would have to keep the ice pack, "you don't want them swollen."

House grumbled to himself about meddlesome doctors and pulled out his TV, laying the ice pack on his hand.

Oprah would do.


	9. Day Three: I Myself Am Hell

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Day Three: I Myself Am Hell**

_I myself am hell,  
nobody's here—_

—Robert Lowell, "Skunk Hour"

Oprah was about to bring out the second troubled teen of the day when his ducklings burst into the office.

Foreman poked his head into House's office. "Meeting. Now," he said.

This was much better than Oprah. He tossed the melting ice pack aside and stood. Pain shot through his leg and he sat right back down, suddenly very dizzy and very nauseous. Stupid Wilson and his stupid ice pack.

He was sweating heavily again and trying to keep down the bile churning in his stomach like it was a washing machine by the time he made it to the other room and sank down into the first empty chair he saw. They immediately started filling him in, ignoring the way he looked. Good. This was much more important than the bad day he was having.

The kid had had a major bleed. No time to start the solumedrol. They had done an angiography.

Foreman was talking. "Angiography revealed major upper and lower GI bleeding, severe hemodynamic compromise, and liver failure."

_Great_.

Then Chase. "He's also hallucinating. Thinks he's being talked to by someone named 'Jules'."

_Jules? Who's Jules?_

Cameron stepped in. "Hallucinations are a symptom of psychosis, which is the fourth diagnostic criterion." _Here we go again_. "It's official. This is lupus."

_It's _not _lupus_. But more importantly:"Who's Jules? Any mention of her in the medical history?"

Cameron wasn't having any of it. "It doesn't matter what he's hallucinating about," she said, "it matters why! It's lupus!"

_Me-yow_. "There's no need to get snippy," he said. _It's _not _lupus_. "This kind of lupus takes years to get to this point, it's been a week."

A very, very long week. God, he was tired. He tasted bile in the back of his throat and tried to push it down. _Not in front of _them, he thought, _not in front of them._ He bent over a little more, holding his left arm against his stomach. This too was part of Dante's hell. He was sure of that.

Cameron was talking again. She sounded pissed. "Yeah, and a 16-year-old kid shouldn't have hemolytic anemia, or be bleeding out of every orifice, but he is. We had an opportunity to treat this, instead we diddled around with Hepatitis-E and now it's too late. He needs a new liver. We screwed up."

"You're saying I screwed up," he said. _If you're going to say, say it._

"Yes," she said. He didn't have time to deal with her emotions. _Who's Jules?_

"Then why didn't you just say that?" he said, eyeing her. _Is it so hard to be straight with me? If I screwed up, tell me. I sure as hell tell you_.

Foreman jumped in. "You gonna just blame this on her?" he asked, unimpressed.

"Did you agree with my recommendation to treat for Hep-E?" he asked Cameron.

"No," she said, "I didn't."

"And she made herself quite clear," Chase qualified.

"And then she went and lied to the father," he said to Chase. He turned to her. "That's why you're angry."

"Yeah," she said. "I trusted you."

"You always trust me," he said. "Big mistake." But that was beside the point, which was that: "Lupus is a bad diagnosis." Ugh. He needed to throw up now. He pressed his left arm against his stomach harder.

"It's the best diagnosis we've got," Chase said.

"That doesn't make it good," he said.

"No," Foreman said, "it just makes it this kid's only chance to live."

Right. Only one thing to do now. Or, only one thing that would get them moving and get him back to the sanctity of his office where he could be miserable in peace.

"Put him on the transplant list," he said grudgingly. It wasn't lupus but until he found out what it was, this would have to do. "And make sure Cuddy knows, see if she can do anything to get him close to the top." He moved to stand. Ugh. Standing, moving. Ugh.

He walked slowly back to his office, feeling like a decrepit old man, and had barely sat down when he started vomiting again. Just bile this time. He stomach strained with the effort. Ugh.

It was just perfect that he'd picked a meshed trash can instead of a solid one. What a lovely color this time. Gall bladder green.

He heard someone walk up behind him. Couldn't they go do their jobs? What was so hard about that?

His stomach heaved again but it was empty. He spat to get the taste out of his mouth and looked up. Foreman. Great. Just the person he wanted to see at this moment.

"Cafeteria," he said, trying not to look as bad as he felt. "Stay away from the sushi."

"And what happened to your hand?" Foreman said with that you-can't-shit-me-anymore look on his face.

He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, breathing hard.

"Got stuck in a drawer," he said. This was the last thing he needed right now. A lecture from Foreman.

"Yeah, right," Foreman said. "You're going through withdrawal."

"No," he said shakily, "I am going through pain." He stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket. "Pain causes nausea."

He saw Foreman tense up. The lecture. _Here it comes_.

"I took this job to work with you, not cover your ass," Foreman said. He reached into his pocket.

"Your Vicodin," he said, putting the bottle on the table.

He was taken aback. All he could do was go after Foreman. "And your solution is to give me drugs," he said, nearly laughing, nearly crying. "It's interesting."

"No," Foreman said. "Now I'm covering my ass." He stared at House. "Take your pills before you kill this kid." He left.

Foreman knew exactly where to hit him. As much as House didn't like to admit it, Foreman was good. Real good.

And he was right. House knew it.

And oh, how he wanted to tear the bottle open, down one, feel it dissolve in his stomach, feel the pain disintegrate, feel good again, normal again, end the nightmare of the past few days, end the pain of too much reality. He needed to feel good. He couldn't stand the terrible awareness of everything around him any longer.

He popped the top off with his right hand and the pills spilled onto his desk. His hand shook and he let the bottle drop onto the table.

There it was.

Life.

There it was. Not five minutes had passed since he went off them that he didn't think about them, wanting them.

It was so simple.

He picked up a pill, hand still shaking, mouth watering, entire body willing him to put it in his mouth and swallow it and end this. Just for a little while. He just needed a short break away from everything. He needed them worse than he'd ever needed anything. Wanted them more. At that moment, he'd take the pill over having his leg back.

So simple. He needed it so badly. If they only knew how badly.

It felt familiar between his fingers. His oldest friend. His blood pounded, take it, take it, take it.

No one would know. No one would have to know.

He could replace the lost one. Give them back to Foreman. Show them he was going to tough it out, that he could think through the pain, that he didn't need the pills. That they didn't run his life, that _he_ ran his life, he was still in control. He'd gone three miserable days with nothing. He'd proven that. _He_ was in control.

No one would know. No one at all.

No one except him.

Could he live with that, sleep at night?

He'd been living with worse for years.

Yeah, he could live with that.

And before he could stop himself, he swallowed the pill.

Endorphins exploded like fireworks in his brain. He felt a wash of relief. His leg receded. His hand. His arm. All of it. Every weakness he ever had was gone. He was in control. He felt good.

And then he realized what he'd done. Panic gripped him. He'd given in to them. He shouldn't feel physically better five seconds after swallowing a Vicodin. He didn't feel better because of the medicine. He felt better because he'd taken it.

At that moment he could no longer deny what he'd known for so long but refused to admit to anyone, even himself.

He was an addict.

Not just physically dependent on the pills. Psychologically dependent.

The horror of this realization struck him and before he knew it his fingers were down his throat and the pill was in the trash can.

He looked down at it with disgust. Its outer layer had begun to dissolve but there was no way it had entered his system. He hated himself, what he'd just done.

And every time he'd taken one to show off, because he was bored, because he felt like he needed one; every time he'd taken one before his leg had begun to actually hurt again; all of this washed over him at once.

He wanted to scream.

It was gone. His last bastion of defense was gone.

Now he knew. Now he really knew that this was forever. That there was no getting better.

He remembered waking up from surgery, too doped up to really know where he was or what was going on. He'd lain there wondering vaguely what was on TV right now, why he didn't have to pee after hours of lying around, what had really happened, why he was by himself in a dark room, why his right leg ached slightly, why his mouth tasted funny, why he couldn't feel his arms, when the door opened quickly, someone came in, and the door shut quickly. Who was that? What was going on? He was only mildly curious. For the most part, he didn't care. He wanted to get up and ask this person what he was doing in his room. He didn't like lying down when someone else was standing up. It made him feel vulnerable. He tried to move. He couldn't move. He tried to say, 'who are you and what are you doing here and why can't I move' but a weird animal noise came out instead.

He saw the figure move and heard a low voice say softly, "Greg?"

Who was Greg?

Oh, right. Him. He was Greg.

He laughed to himself that he'd forgotten his name. Pretty funny. It was a funny name too. Began and ended with the same letter. Not very creative whoever thought that up.

But what had he been thinking about? It felt important. Something about...

He didn't have time to think about it because the figure moved again and he heard "Greg?" again this time a little louder.

'Yeah, that's me, whaddaya want?' he said but instead another animal noise came out like a low grunt. Who let a pig in the room?

"Greg? Are you awake?"

'Awake, that's a funny word.' "Uhn."

Oh, that was him making those noises. Why couldn't he talk? He was starting to get scared when the fluorescent light over the bed came on and blinded him.

He blinked, trying to see. He couldn't blink very fast. What was going on?

"Hey," the voice said softly and then he saw who was attached to that voice.

He knew that guy.

What was that guy's name? Something with an R?

"How're you doing?"

That tone was very familiar. He was groping for a what, a who, a why, when something in his brain clicked on and reality rushed back to him. Wilson, Wilson, that was Wilson.

He started breathing fast, remembering.

Wilson's face changed from a smile to a worried frown. "Do you know where you are? Greg?"

Bed. Hospital. He tried to say it. It didn't come out right.

Wilson appeared to understand though. "Are you in any pain?"

'No.' That seemed to go across too.

"Do you remember what happened this morning?"

Morning? He tried to think. He remembered pain. Confusion. Waking up in the bright lights of the ER. People saying things. Some things to him, some things to themselves. He didn't remember what they'd said. All he remembered was pain and then nothing. The day was a black hole in his memory. What _had_ happened?

He tried to shake his head. He tried to say 'no.' Some part of that must have gotten through because Wilson started talking.

It was hard to concentrate. His brain was floating, grabbing on to anything for a second then letting it go and grabbing on to something else.

Something about his leg. Yeah, he remembered that it hurt. That was where the pain was.

Something about surgery. He thought he recalled someone telling him to scoot over and a mask being put on his face and feeling confused and claustrophobic. He wasn't sure about that though.

Something about an infarction. That was another funny word. Move the 'r' and you get something else entirely. Wait. An infarction. He'd had a heart attack? In his leg? That didn't make sense.

The words stopped. Someone else was in the room. He felt pressure on his arm and looked over. Oh. Blood pressure cuff. Nurse. Vitals.

He heard Wilson say, "Should he be this confused?"

"It's just the anesthesia. He woke up during the procedure and they had to give him more. I'll get the anesthesiologist to come check on him."

"Thanks."

He didn't remember waking up. He'd remember that, right? He recalled remembering that he'd woken up during surgery when he was twelve and getting his appendix out. They rolled him over and he threw up and then he was out again. He remembered that. Why couldn't he remember this?

He must've looked worried because he heard Wilson say, "It'll come back to you when the anesthetic wears off."

Okay. Made sense. He had a feeling deep inside him that something wasn't right and that it would never be right again. Something big. Something...something...

The next time he woke up Wilson was slumped in a chair asleep, blue light was streaming in from the window, and he remembered everything. His leg hurt and he tried to feel it with his right hand but came up against layers of dressing and a thin plastic tube. Catheter. Shit. He was gald he didn't remember that.

He lay back wondering what would happen now. He remembered what Wilson had said before about a blood clot in his leg. Well, his leg was still there, so that was good, but he had a deep, sick feeling that something was very wrong. There had been a mistake. It wasn't a pulled muscle or a torn muscle like the first guy had said. A blood clot in his leg. That could mean...

He didn't have time to reflect because his stirring had woken Wilson.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Feeling okay?"

"My leg hurts."

"I'll call the nurse."

"No, it's fine for now."

"Okay...do you remember what happened?"

"Blood clot in my leg."

"Yeah, they had to-"

"What's the prognosis?"

Wilson was silent.

"Well...they didn't have to amputate, so that's good."

"What's the prognosis. Tell me."

Wilson sighed. "They're not sure..."

The world crashed in on him. Not sure if... Didn't think he'd ever... Too much damage... Needed to go in again...

He'd laid there silent. Wilson tried to get him to talk. He couldn't. Too much to process, too much to think about.

His leg hurt. Wilson called the nurse.

He felt medicine rushing to his head and suddenly he wasn't worried anymore. Everything was far away and peaceful. He slept.

That might've been it, the moment when he found the answer to the quandary life had put him in. Or it could have been later, during PT, or during the first month home and the crushing loneliness, or when he could go out again and people stared, or trying to have sex for the first time and the way she couldn't stop looking at the scars, or the thousand other little things that he couldn't do anymore, or in between the hours that filled the days that filled the years that were so heavy.

He put the pills back in the bottle, including the one he'd taken. He was furious. At himself but also at Cuddy for putting Foreman up to it. She was going to catch hell. He'd make sure of that even if he had to crawl down there.

* * *

"I put up with a lot of crap from you," he said angrily, gripping his cane, "but I don't appreciate your trying to turn my staff against me."

Cuddy stared at him incredulously. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

House hung his cane on his left arm, pulled the bottle out of his jacket pocket and threw it at her.

She caught it and read the label. "Where did you get these?"

"Don't play dumb," he spat. "You know where."

"No, I don't," she said, straightening up and folding her hands on the desk to say 'I'm the one in control here'. "Did it ever occur to you that your staff might think you're just as crazy as I do? I'll say it again: Go home. Foreman came to see me about Keith's transplant and I was trying to move him up the list when you burst in here ranting and raving about some non-existent conspiracy. There's nothing else you can do, so go home before you do any more damage."

"It's not lupus," he said tightly.

"Then what is it?" she replied

He hesitated. "I don't know yet," he said.

"Well, there's no more time for guessing," she said sitting back.

"Not yet," he said to himself. _Jules?_ "But that's beside the point. No more dirty tricks. Stay away from my staff."

"You're mad, House."

"Fine, deny it," he said. "But they're all there. Count 'em."

He turned on his heel and stormed out as best he could.

She watched him go, moving slowly, holding his left arm against his body and throwing off his balance. He looked bad. She'd seen him look worse, yes, but he'd been laid out in the ICU, nearly dead then. Now, well, she was amazed he was still standing, much less traversing four floors to yell at her over some stupid point of pride. She'd seen his hand. She knew what that meant. He was the biggest risk in the whole hospital—worse even than the pot-smoking orderlies. But there were times when she really admired his tenacity, misplaced though it may be. This was one of those times. About his hand…what he'd done…she'd speak to Wilson later. The last thing she wanted was to see House in the hospital again.

* * *

After half an hour back in his office, the anger and adrenaline had worn off completely. Still he pushed himself to concentrate.

Jules. Not the girl. Jules. Nickname for the mother? Jules. Old girlfriend? Jules. The car? No, none of them fit.

Only one thing to do.

Talk to the patient.

Damn.

If he knew his staff at all—and he did know them—they'd be in one of two places: in the lab or outside the kid's room. He hoped it was the latter. As much as he hated it, he felt instinctually that Jules was the key to this whole mess and that meant he'd have to talk to the father about who Jules was. He preferred to have a buffer there when he did it.

He really, _really_ didn't want to stand up or go anywhere or move at all. His blood sugar was low enough that he felt lightheaded, cold, dizzy and extremely tired sitting down. He was rapidly losing the ability to focus. The usual catalogue of pain was there too with a headache added on and more unremitting nausea for good measure.

But he had to find out about Jules. He absolutely had to. It was the key, he knew it.

So he had to wake himself up.

To that end, he placed his left hand on the tabletop again and before he could even think about it, made a fist with his right hand and bashed his fingers as hard as he could. The new pain of bone grating on bone jolted his body into wakefulness. It was too sudden, though, too much for his beleaguered pain receptors to deal with and he slumped in the chair, gasping, trying desperately not to pass out. He gradually began to feel better again, his body back under a modicum of control.

He stood, concentrating on the pain in his arm, stepping slowly by steadily out of his office, down the hall, to the elevator. It was crowded but it would have to do. He got on, thankful that someone had already pushed the button for the second floor. The elevator moved and he felt his stomach leap.

This was quite possibly the worse day of his life.

The elevator stopped on three and he gritted his teeth while people pushed to get out, jostling him. He breathed in the smell of people who'd been working all day.

He thought about Jules. Odd name. Short for Julia. Derived from Julius. Ides of March. Brutus's guilt. Knives, stabbing. Battle for succession.

The elevator dinged, second floor. He stepped forward with his right foot and felt his leg give. He barely caught himself.

Philippi. Augustus Caesar. Maximus. Commodus. Thumb going down, going up. Fighting tigers in the brilliant Italian sun. Baked sand of the Coliseum. His first visit to Europe. How small it looked, too little to be anything other than what it was. Vespas racing by. Drinking wine at night. Making love. Her name was Julia. Jules, right Jules.

He rounded a corner and spotted them, heard them talking above the roar in his head.

Father asking about donating his liver. No.

"So we just wait?" the guy said.

"I'm afraid so," Cameron said.

"And hope for someone to die," the guy again.

He sucked in enough air to speak. "Who's Jules?" he asked. He sounded bad even to himself.

Cameron started buzzing like a fly by his ear. "Dr. House, you should get back to your office–"

"Jules," he insisted, cutting her off. Didn't they see that this was important? "There's no Jules in the history."

"It was a hallucination," Chase said.

"Of what?" House asked.

"Our cat," the father said flatly.

_Cat?_

"Does this matter?" the father said.

_Dammit, yes_.

Foreman got in the way. "No, I'm sorry," he said. "We'll continue the transfusions and the treatment for the anemia and liver failure while we're waiting for a donor."

Father again. Damn him and his questions. "How long can he wait?"

_Cat_.

"Not long," Chase said.

_Cat is significant_. _Cat is real. Cat isn't imaginary_.

"I don't think this is lupus," House said.

Cameron again, trying to grab him. "Come on, let's just go–"

He interrupted her quickly. "Your fourth diagnostic criterion of lupus is psychosis; this is just a kid missing his cat."

"He was being attacked by an animal that wasn't in the room," Chase said. "That's psychosis."

No. "There's a difference between psychosis and hallucination," House said. Damn them.

Foreman and his punk-ass attitude again. "So, if he was imagining a fake cat it'd be lupus, but since it was a real cat it's not? Take your damn pills."

He continued, "Psychosis requires–"

The father interrupted, "There's no cat!" he said. "Jules is dead."

_What!_

"You have a dead family pet," he said, "and you never mentioned it?" He turned to Cameron. "Nice family history."

She was still buzzing around him. "Family history is asking about family members, meaning people related to the patient. Let's go."

This was it, this was the key. "How did the cat die?" he asked.

"Can you get him out of here?" the father said. Bastard.

"Dr. House, come on, let's go–" Dammit, Cameron.

"What happened to the cat?" he persisted.

"Old age," someone said. Oh, the girl. "She was fifteen years old."

House turned to her. "When?"

"About a month ago?" she said.

"Does this have anything to do with–" Damn that stubborn son of a bitch.

He ignored the guy. "Where'd she sleep?" he asked.

"With Keith," the girl said.

_Very significant_.

"This is not a cat allergy," Cameron said.

"It's not lupus," he said to himself, since he was the only one who'd listen to him. "Where is Jules?"

"Buried," she replied.

"Where?" he asked.

"In the backyard," the girl said.

"Foreman, Chase," House said, tossing his head to indicate they'd be breaking and entering again.

The dad watched the exchange of body language between the three of them. "What? What does that mean? You're not going to dig up the cat."

"Yes," House said wearily, "they are."

"They're not setting foot on my property until you tell me why the cat is important to you."

House sighed. "Her body may tell us something about what's wrong with him." _Let this stubborn bastard agree_. He couldn't stand much longer.

"You already know what's wrong. He has lupus."

"He does not have lupus. We need to autopsy the cat." He was almost to the point of saying please. It was a very bad day, having to plead with a patient's relative.

"Like hell you do."

He felt himself swaying, trying to come up with a response, when Chase stepped in. "The cat could tell us something. I agree with Dr. House."

_Good boy_. _You do well by your old man_.

The father was exasperated. "But you're not going to go, you two? What if something happens to Keith? You're his doctors, you can't leave."

"Dr. Cameron will be here," Chase said. "And at this point we're just waiting on the liver."

The father sighed. "Fine, do what you have to," he said resignedly. "Pam can show you where to go."

The girl smiled buoyantly at Chase and Foreman and motioned for them to follow her.

"Page me when you get back," House said over his shoulder.

Foreman and Chase stopped and exchanged confused glances. "Sure," Chase said slowly and they turned to leave again.

"Excuse me, Mr. Foster," Cameron said politely, "I need to speak with Dr. House for a moment."

The father waved them off.

Cameron tugged on his left arm and pulled him toward the elevators.

"Oww," he said. "Watch it."

Once she was sure the father couldn't hear them, Cameron stopped and hissed at him, "What the hell do you think you're doing! You can't keep jerking this poor guy around. And now you've got Foreman and Chase digging up a dead cat! It's lupus, he needs a new liver, let it go."

"Is that the way you always address your bosses?" he said tiredly. He wished she'd spare him the lecture and let him slink back to his office and rest until Chase and Foreman returned.

Instead she glared at him and pulled his arm forward again. "Come on."

"Oww! Stop that!"

"You didn't fall," she said through her teeth, leading him to the elevators.

"That's none of your business," he said, lurching forward with her. He was tugged out of class once by the ear for smart mouthing in second grade. It was eerie how similar this was to that.

"What're you gonna do," he said as they stepped on to the elevator, "spank me?"

The other people in the elevator stared at them and Cameron pushed the button for four angrily.

House felt his stomach jump again as the elevator moved. They stood in silence as people got off on three, House leaning heavily on his cane, Cameron with her arms crossed over her chest.

She grabbed his arm again and pulled him out of the elevator on four.

"Jesus," he said, grunting with the jerky motion.

She pulled him into his office and let go. He swayed without her support and cursed involuntarily.

"This has to stop," she said. "You can barely stand. How are you going to autopsy a cat if you can't stand?"

"I'm standing just fine," he said, making a point not to look at his chair, trying to stay upright.

She stood with her arms crossed looking at him. "Why are you doing this?" she said.

"Go back to the father," he said heavily, "and tell him it'll all be okay...before he comes looking for me."

She glared at him for a moment, turned, and was gone.

He sighed deeply when she'd gone and sank into the yellow chair, thoroughly exhausted once more.


	10. Night Two: Red Jello

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Night Two: Red Jello**

_This shaking keeps me steady. I should know._

—Theodore Roethke, "The Waking"

He was aware of a few things.

1. Pain. Everywhere.

2. Breathing.

3. Breathing sucked.

4. Silence was unbelievably loud.

5. This is what limbo must be like.

He'd somehow managed to get his feet up on the ottoman and was sprawling in the chair, unable to move, unwilling to move, waiting on a goddamn dead cat. He couldn't process what he didn't know—i.e., how the cat died—so his brain was free to float around. Owing to a want of energy to function, it was hanging limp doing nothing.

Years passed. Eons. He kept breathing.

Wilson tapped on his door again around 6:30 and he was startled but didn't move. His muscles were too overworked to correctly interpret neural signals now.

Wilson glanced into the conference room, confused that House wasn't in his regular spot.

"Cameron send you?" House said from the corner of the room and it was Wilson's turn to jump.

"There you are," he said under his breath, noticing that House was slurring his words.

Aloud he said, "Yeah, but I would've come anyway."

"I'm touched," House said, exhaling the words. The buzz of talking that reverberated in his chest had become too much.

Wilson stepped closer to the chair, letting the door close. "Come on," he said. "Time for your treatment."

"That sounds really scary," House said tiredly. "Do your patients run away when you say that?"

He was not in the mood for more compassion from Mr. Sunshine. He just wanted to stay where he was and...whatever. "I'm—"

"Don't say it," Wilson interrupted. "Look at yourself," he said. "You're about to collapse. Actually, I think you have collapsed."

"Which is why I'm sitting here and not standing there. Ergo..." he gestured meaninglessly in the air.

"Aw come on" Wilson persisted, "I got us a room with a TV. It gets E!"

"You sure know how to treat a guy," House said dully.

"Don't say I never did nothin' for ya," Wilson said and extended his hand.

"Don' wanna go anywhere," House said sleepily.

"Well...you can either walk," Wilson said, "or I can get some burly orderlies to toss you onto a gurney and you can ride. And if you go that way, there'll be paperwork involved."

"Damn you," House said. "I'm waiting on a cat."

Wilson nodded. "Cameron told me."

When House didn't hear him leaving, he looked up. "Well? You're still here?"

"You can't autopsy a cat if you can't sit up," Wilson pointed out.

"I think," House said, "it's within the realm of possibility."

"And you also think Keith doesn't have lupus," Wilson said incredulously.

"And I'm right," House answered, more strongly than he would have thought possible. Why wouldn't Wilson just go away and let him lie?

"You're not twenty-five anymore," Wilson said, a plaintive edge creeping into his voice. "You can't do this."

House sighed. "I _really_ don't want to go anywhere," he mumbled and let his eyelids fall down.

"It's just down the hall," Wilson persisted.

"Too far," House groaned.

"Wimp," Wilson goaded.

"Am not," House said. He didn't want to play games right now.

"Are to," Wilson nagged.

House opened his eyes and looked up at Wilson.

"I'd like to see you do this," he said.

"I wouldn't be dumb enough to go cold turkey," Wilson replied.

"Cause you'd never make it," House muttered.

"Cause it would hurt," Wilson said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," House said softly. "It would."

Wilson waited.

House took a deep breath. "All right, all right, you win."

Wilson grinned and stuck out his right hand to pull House out of his reclining position. He found himself taking on most of House's weight since House couldn't use his left hand.

House groaned long and deep as Wilson pulled him up. His vision swam with the motion and his abdominal muscles protested the work they had to do. His stomach felt sucked in, as if it had been vacuum sealed.

He got his bearings and grabbed his jeans to put his right foot on the floor. The fillings in his teeth jarred when it connected with the ground. Maybe he could bang his hand against something when Wilson wasn't looking. He brought his left foot down and hunched forward, breathing harshly.

"Okay, let's go," he said, eyes closed tight, not wanting to rest.

Wilson fumbled, "Are you sure you can—"

"This was your idea," House snarled. "Let's _go_." If he sat like this for a few more seconds, he'd fall back into the chair and crash completely.

Wilson sensed that it wasn't the time to argue. He bent down and put House's right arm over his shoulders, braced himself, and lifted up. For a guy who'd been losing weight all week, he sure was heavy.

House wobbled and Wilson held him up until he stopped wobbling. Wilson then handed him his cane and switched to his left side.

"Ow ow ow," House said as Wilson lifted his left arm. "Not gonna work."

Wilson moved back over to House's right side, not sure what to do.

"Just...stay close," House said, eyes still shut. Pain no longer meant anything to him.

"This...better not...be far," he gasped.

"It's not," Wilson said trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

"Better not...be."

And it wasn't: Wilson made good on his word.

House balked at the sight of an empty hospital bed. "I'll...take...the chair," he said, trying to move for it.

Wilson stopped him easily. "No, you need to lie down."

"Don't...tell me...what I need."

But he was trembling, leaning on Wilson. Realizing he had no choice, he said reluctantly, "All right, but I'm not staying here. The minute that cat arrives—"

"Yes, yes, but that won't be for a while," Wilson said, trying not to sound patronizing.

"Fine," House said, lowering himself onto the bed. He strained to pull his right leg up, reaching across his body, and it was all Wilson could do not to step in.

The muscles of his back sighed happily and released their tension as he lay back, aching slightly as they did. He winced a little at the relief of it. Even when he was back on the Vicodin, he could tell it would take at least a week to get his body back in order. Probably more. God, he'd gotten old. When had that happened?

He didn't have much time for reflection because as soon as he was settled on the bed, Wilson produced a pair of gloves from no where. House looked around and noticed that he had everything set up.

"All ready to go this time, Dr. Frankenstein?" he said. "Ten bucks says you were an eagle scout."

Wilson laughed quietly. "Why would you bet on something I can lie about?"

"Don't kid yourself," House said, "you can't lie your way out of a wet paper bag."

Wilson smiled at the thought. "Under what circumstances would I ever be trapped in a wet paper bag?"

"I can think of some," House said.

"Sure you can," Wilson replied. "Right or left?"

He didn't have to think about that one. His left hand had had enough punishment for one day.

"Right."

Wilson set about putting the IV in.

House's mind wandered. He'd been a student trainer one year for the football team in high school. It had gotten him out of gym. He looked at Wilson and he was reminded of his job back then: standing over a player, sticking him, squeezing the bag to get as much fluid in before the second half because they played better after an intravenous infusion. Some of them used to whimper when he stuck them. Wussies. Now here he was getting the same treatment so he could stay in the game. But at least he wasn't whimpering.

He felt himself getting whimsical and snapped back to reality, realizing Wilson had a syringe in his hand and was wiping the injection port with an alcohol pad.

"What?" he said. "No, not now."

Wilson sighed. He'd hoped to avoid having this argument again. "You've got to eat something," he said. "Drink something at least."

"No," House said, "I've got to stay awake. You hit me with that and I'll be out again."

"It'll take them at least three hours to dig that cat up and get it back here," Wilson said.

"Two young, strong, strapping fellows like Chase and Foreman?" House said. He waved his good hand. "Nah. Hour and a half tops."

"Have you _been_ outside?" Wilson said. "It's _February_. The ground's frozen."

House considered it, cocking his head. "And Chase probably doesn't know what a shovel is. Okay, push it," he said and lay back.

Wilson complied, then discarded the syringe and his gloves and turned the TV on.

House felt the drug in his system and felt himself sinking under it. He relaxed and faded in the noise of television.

Wilson watched House fall asleep. He turned the TV volume down, leaned back, and let himself drift off as well.

* * *

He dreamed. Of her.

She was back from Berkley, in his apartment, talking, she wouldn't look at him, he wanted to touch her so badly but he couldn't reach, something was stopping him, she was yelling at him about smoking cigars inside, she was walking away, he couldn't get up to follow her, he was stuck in the chair, she was gone.

They were sailing in the Atlantic, she was sitting next to him and he had his arm around her and they were laughing and talking and he wanted to say something to her but it wouldn't come out, he wanted to fuck her so bad, he was so hard, but she just laughed and looked away and he couldn't do anything but hold her tighter to him with his arm.

They were in bed in the old apartment, he was naked, she was dressed, asleep, back turned to him, he couldn't get her to turn over, could only see her outline through the gauzy nightgown she wore, could only remember the feel of her breasts in his hands, could only remember what she smelled like, couldn't reach her, couldn't talk to her, couldn't do anything but feel his body tight with need.

He jerked awake, erection straining against the fly of his jeans, and moaned pitifully, thick with unsatisfied desire.

Pain came flooding back in the next instant and he lost it. Just as well. Couldn't do anything about it.

The room was dark except for the blue flash of the television. Night. Wilson was gone too.

He looked up at the IV pole to see how much time had passed. He guessed about forty-five minutes based on the amount of fluid left.

He felt much better despite the pain in his bones and muscles. His body was relaxed with sleep and relatively content, but his mind, those dreams...

Stacy. He hadn't dreamed about her in months. Not like that, anyway. Not that vividly.

Stacy. He missed her, though he didn't think of her often. It had been too long for that. Hearing something at work or on TV that he knew she'd love that he remembered to tell her before he remembered that she was gone, the things she'd gotten him into when they were dating—law dramas on TV (he couldn't hear the opening notes of the Law and Order theme song without his muscles clenching and ice running down his spine), the New Yorker (he stopped reading the articles long ago-they used to debate the issues surrounding a particular article, half-bantering, half-serious, a practice that almost always ended in kissing-something that had dropped off in the months before he...well, before; he kept the subscription up for the cartoons), newspaper editorials (she believed in things so much, was so passionate about them-it was part of the reason he'd loved her the way he did), news in general (which he now avoided-any mention of politics, government, law was a reminder; lying in the hospital for so long, feeling so many conflicting emotions about their relationship, he'd become addicted to soap operas then, he couldn't stomach the news anymore...it was too much a part of the reality she still lived in, far away from him), suits (the way she'd look at him sometimes when he'd just finished dressing for a dinner or a conference and the way they'd sometimes skip those events, deciding without words...), martinis (her lips touching the rim of the glass, leaving a trace of lipstick, sucking on the olive later...), children (they'd discussed it, even to the point of names), conferences (because he liked going to hers, to listen to her talk in front of a bunch of idiots who weren't even in the same intellectual ballpark as she was, because she was so smart and sexy it killed him), the smoothness of his face after he shaved (because she liked a timely five o'clock shadow, no more than that), certain brands of after-shave (because she liked them so much and he wore them for her), John Grisham novels (which he still read anyway, even if she had introduced them to him, because they'd been part of the happy times at the beginning), Harrison Ford (because she confessed she thought he was dead sexy and House never got over hating him for it), her perfume (Cuddy had worn it for a few months until his insults about how much she stank made her quit, because he couldn't stand such a strong reminder of her filling the air like that, stinging him so deeply), and other things, many other things—all of these small things, they didn't hurt him so much anymore he thought.

It had been nearly six years since they'd broken the engagement. She left Princeton-Plainsboro for greener pastures. They didn't keep in touch. He hadn't spoken to her in at least three years. Probably more like four. Almost five now. After a while, the years passed without his noticing their passing. You couldn't mourn the death of a year if you didn't acknowledge that it was gone. As far as he was concerned, it was still 1999. Thinking about time made him feel helpless and old. Thinking about Stacy…well, he liked to think that he thought about her less and less, remembered things for her and about her less and less. One thing time did do was ease the shock of memory. Not the pain of memory, no, but the shock of it, yes. And drugs too. Drugs _really _helped. God, he wanted a Vicodin, not just for his leg and hand but because it made memories of her easier to dismiss, blurring the edges of thought.

God, he missed her. She was...

She was. Just that. She _was_.

Over.

He couldn't stand to think about her now, not when he was already hurting so much. He couldn't stand to think about any of it. Which was probably why he was dreaming it. He cursed his subconscious for wanting to air itself out. Go on, let him go crazy with repression. Why not. Why the fuck not.

But not right now. He was busy.

He rubbed a sleepy, heavy hand over his face, feeling the course hair on his face scratch against his calloused palm. Old, calloused, and prickly. Yep, that was him.

Dwelling, though. What use in dwelling. So he looked around for the television remote instead. He spied it in the chair next to him and ignored the loud protests of his muscles as he reached for it. He channel surfed for a while, finally settling on a show about Oscar nominees.

But he couldn't shake her.

Why now. Of all the times, why now. Why.

And this, this lying on a bed in the dark with only the TV on, exhausted, hurting, humiliated, disgusted, trying not to think so much, having nothing to do but think, wondering why he kept going when he could see his future so clearly and it looked so bleak, feeling broken, breathing in the scent of hospital, of dried sweat, the cool drift of fluid in his arm, and waiting, waiting—this was still too familiar, still too fresh, despite the years.

Five years ago, almost six years now. Long years. God, he was old. And getting older.

Two months. It had been two months since they'd broken the engagement, terminated the lease, taken their leave. He'd worked hard, staying long hours, juggling an immense case load, gone to the gym and worked out hard, happy to feel his muscles burn, hit the bottle hard, always around for last call, sometimes picking fights, he'd even gotten banned from one place—anything so that he could sleep as soon as he got home and not dream, not think about the way things had gone, not agonize over where things had gone wrong, not feel anything at all.

Wilson had only been around so much. He'd broken up with what's-her-name a year earlier and was courting Julie heavily by the time they called it quits.

Then she'd come back. Or maybe he'd gone back to her. What did it matter. The point was that they'd been happy again for a while, falling back into the old rhythm. Then another fight, both declaring they were leaving for good, and he'd gone back to punishing himself in earnest. Anything to sleep and not feel.

And then his leg started hurting. Easy. Pulled a muscle doing too many reps, darting too quickly after a tennis ball. Wasn't that young anymore. Got tossed by a guy into the corner of a pool table in a bar fight and got a deep bruise. Simple. Pain could be anything but was probably something simple. Occam's razor. Easy.

Didn't go away. Didn't stop pushing himself. Drinking, fighting, long hours, running, anything to sleep like the dead at night. Let it be pulled, bruised. Let it not go away. Let the flesh reflect the spirit.

Then Wilson noticed. Nagged him. Another doc checked it. Pulled, torn. Stop the exercise, let it heal. Let it be torn. Anything to sleep. Anything to not dream.

Then that night. It had been building all day, his lumbering walk, questioning glances from everyone, should get that checked out right away. Went out instead. Couldn't drink it away. Sweated out the drink. Couldn't sleep. Was too bad. Biting his pillow to keep from screaming. Calling Wilson when he couldn't scream anymore.

Then pain. Confusion. Realization. Surgeries. Hopelessness.

Then this. Months of this. Useless lying around. Useless taking up space. Time. Money.

Then she'd come. He'd been there a few days, maybe a week. Getting used to this new reality where a day didn't mean solving another complicated case but the hours in between pain meds and dinner, shitting in a bucket, pissing in a tube, waking for rounds, sleeping after Leno, PT to keep his left leg in shape while the right one healed, vitals checks every four hours, too much time locked inside himself, weighed down by tissue. He still didn't know how she'd found out. Probably Wilson. He never asked, never wanted to know.

Mid-afternoon. Lunch had sucked. Lack of selection. Lack of appetite. He'd been gauging the relative merits of Montel, Geraldo, Rikki Lake, Maury, Sally Jesse, and Jenny Jones, and was in the middle of a compelling Rikki Lake when he heard the door open. Not time for vitals or meds. Must be Wilson.

"Hey," he said without looking away from the TV, "Rikki's got this guy who-"

"Greg," he heard a woman say softly.

That wasn't Wilson. It was her. Oh shit, it was her. She'd come back. Even after what she'd said, what he'd said.

"Oh," he said, feeling chest and stomach tighten, the rush of adrenaline, the shock of it, instantly self-conscious, wishing he were cleaner, wishing tubes weren't snaking in and out of him, "it's you."

She was dressed for work. She still looked so stunning he'd be knocked of his feet if he could stand.

"What're you doing here?" he said stupidly.

"What am I doing here," she repeated flatly. She didn't put up with any bullshit when she was in certain moods. Like the mood where she stuck her neck out. He liked that, of course. It was part of the attraction. They were a matched pair. But not anymore and he was drugged and fuzzy and hurting and despondent.

He turned his attention back to the television, tense.

"That's what I said," he replied.

The television audience applauded wildly, filling the room with noise.

She didn't say anything.

"Whatever you have to say," he said, "I can't deal with it right now." He caught a whiff of her perfume. God. Blood rushed to his groin despite the thousand things trying to stop it.

"I don't have anything to say," she said carefully, testing the waters. "I just came to see if you were all right."

"Well, I'm not," he said, sullen and angry. "I'm a long, long way from all right. You should know all about that."

She paused, aware that he was baiting her. "I was worried about you," she said softly.

"Yeah, well, don't be," he growled.

She persisted. "The nurses said that they weren't sure if-"

"They don't know anything," he snapped.

"Anything?" she said incredulously.

"That's right, anything," he said, frustrated, not knowing how to feel, wishing she'd go away, wishing he didn't want her to run across the room and hold him and tell him it would be all right after all.

"What happened?" she asked. "They said you had a blood clot in your leg."

"That's it," he said.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Now she was getting frustrated. He could hear it in her voice. "Look, you know I'm not a doctor, what does that mean?"

"It means I had a blood clot in my leg," he said bitterly. "They got it out. I'm fine and dandy. Be dancing a jig in no time."

"Stop it," she said. He could hear her getting angry. Fine. He knew how to deal with her when she was angry.

"You stop it," he snapped back, "you started it."

He'd never really looked at her since he first saw her enter the room. If he looked at her, he might do something he'd regret. He blamed it on the pain meds making him dopey. It wasn't that he still loved her. It wasn't that at all. He gazed even more assiduously at the television.

"Don't get juvenile," she said.

"Don't go accusing me of anything," he said angrily. "I told you I couldn't do this right now. Jesus, what do you want!"

"Nothing," she said softly. "Just to check on you."

"Yeah, well, we've been over that already," he said, jaw clenched.

"Fine," she said. "I'll see you later."

And she was gone. Just like that. Before he could get a word out.

He was wrecked for the rest of the day.

Thinking about now, he felt wrecked again. Shit. All this over a dream. An arbitrary chain of neurochemical reactions.

Too many emotions ran through him. He didn't want to think about them or about her or about anything at all. He was wrecked enough as it was. God, he wanted a Vicodin. Or a drink. Or a hard surface to smack his hand against.

_Where_ was Wilson? _Where_ was that cat?

Shouldn't have sent Chase and Foreman. Should've hired real lackeys instead.

The Oscars. He didn't care. He channel surfed again. News. Sitcom. Commercial. Jeopardy. Sitcom. News. News. Law and Order. Sitcom. Commercial. Cartoon. News. Emeril. Hitler. Sitcom. Airplanes. Turtles. News. Fear Factor. Sitcom. Commercial. Oscars. Sitcom. Wrestling. Jackass.

Wrestling, Fear Factor, or Jackass.

Wrestling or Jackass.

Wrestling.

Weird that Jesse The Body Ventura was Jesse The Former Governor of Minnesota. And Ah-nald. That entire state was baked on medicinal marijuana. Right now he could just stand to join them under the Terminator for a little bud in return. Mudslides and forest fires he could deal with.

Mad Dog and Meatball Mulligan were tag teaming against Roy The Face and Kaptain Kill. They had just started throwing chairs when the door opened and Wilson walked in with another stack of boxes.

"Hey," House said, "you're just in time. They're about to go after the owners."

Wilson set the boxes down and turned on a lamp. "Wrestling's rigged," he said.

House squinted in the light and shrugged his right shoulder. "Doesn't make it any less entertaining."

"That's true," Wilson said, sitting down, distributing drinks and cutlery. He surreptitiously glanced at House's hand. Swollen. Great.

"Did you use that ice pack I gave you earlier?" he asked.

"Yeah, it melted," House said sarcastically.

"Right," Wilson said, getting up.

"No," House said, trying to stop him, "I kind of like them like this." He regarded his fingers. "Like beanie weenies."

When Wilson didn't stop, he said quickly, "Let's eat first."

Wilson looked at him.

Sensing he was about to protest, House said jovially, "Come on, what'd ya get me?"

He wasn't interested in eating, but he was even less interested in having his leg hurt more than his hand again.

A smile tugged at Wilson's lips. "You're not gonna like it," he said, moving back to the chair.

"Can't be worse than the stroganoff yesterday," House said. "That was, hands down, the worst meal of my life."

Wilson handed him a box. "See for yourself," he said.

House finagled the box open and was disappointed. Soup. Jello. Milk. Shit.

"Aww, come on," he griped, putting on his best puppy dog face and trying to catch Wilson's eye, "What's this? You better be having Jello too."

"Foreman came to see me," Wilson said, carefully avoiding meeting House's gaze.

"The rat," House grumbled, and turned his attention back to the measly offering before him.

"You should be thankful I didn't listen to him," Wilson said, digging into the chicken-fried steak in his box. "He wanted to bum rush you and ship you up to psych."

"He did not say that," House said incredulously, eyes narrowing at Wilson's dinner.

Wilson laughed around a bite. "You're right, he didn't, but I think he wanted to."

House paused. "If you didn't give him the Vicodin and Cuddy didn't give him the Vicodin, where'd he get it?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Last time I checked he was a doctor and there's a pharmacy down stairs," Wilson deadpanned.

"Nah," House said, "probably turned tricks on the street for it. Gotta keep in practice."

"Aw come on, he's a good guy," Wilson said. "Don't know what you have against him."

"Juvenile records say a lot about a person," House said.

He gestured to the jello and milk on his lap. "You gonna open this or what?" he said. "Cause I can probably get the jello with my teeth but the milk would be messy."

"Sorry," Wilson said and opened the containers. "I thought juvenile records were sealed."

"They are," House said, tapping at the hard-yet-not-hard-at-all surface of the jello with his spoon. What to do with it.

"The amount of trust you display is refreshing," Wilson said. "Can't hire the guy with a perfect GPA from Hopkins without digging into his past, now can you?"

"It's a pretty prestigious fellowship he's got," House said, scooping out a mound of jello and letting it plop in the box. "Wouldn't want to go tarnishing it by hiring a burglar unless you knew he was your kind of burglar."

"You have a 'kind' of burglar?" Wilson asked, eyebrows raised, mixed vegetables on his fork.

"Of course," House said, not really paying attention anymore. "Don't you?"

He spooned soup around the mound of jello, scooped out a small hole in the top of it and carefully poured a few drops of milk into the hole so they flowed down the mound.

"What're you doing?" Wilson asked.

"Making an island in the sun," House said without looking up from his creation.

"I would've gone with milk for the sea and soup for the lava," Wilson said nonchalantly.

"Nah," House said. "Soup wouldn't show up against the red of the jello as well."

"Pour some juice on there and five bucks says you won't eat it," Wilson taunted.

"Nice try," House said, slicing the jello to make rivulets before pouring more milk on. "Do you have some vinegar and baking soda? This is fun."

Wilson sighed. "Do I have to threaten you again?"

"No, you don't have to, but you could," House said. "I don't mind."

"Obviously not," Wilson muttered.

"When did you get a dog?" House asked.

"I'm serious about this," Wilson said.

"And I'm serious about the dog," House said. "What kind is he? Is he a he?"

"House," he said.

"You named him after me?" House said, eyes lighting up. He frowned at the next thought. "That's...kinda weird," he said.

Wilson stood quickly and made for the door, not having any more of House's stalling.

"All right, all right," House said, frustrated. "All right. Fine."

Wilson placed his hands on his hips and squared his gaze on House.

"I'm serious," he said.

"I said okay. You win. Sit down," House said.

He turned his attention back to the television. "I knew Roy and Kaptain Kill would win. What kind of a wrestler can a guy called Meatball Mulligan be, anyway?"

Wilson just looked harder at him.

House rolled his eyes and put a scrape of jello in his mouth, feeling it dissolve.

Wilson sat down.

"His name's Charlie," Wilson said.

"Yeah?" House said, playing with the jello again.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Got him for Christmas. From Julie. I think it was a hint." He paused for a second, noting that House hadn't followed up on that first tiny bite of jello. Imagine having to wheedle a middle-aged man to eat like he was a child who'd turned his nose up at broccoli. But this was House. It came with the territory. He would give him another minute or so.

"He's a shelter animal," Wilson continued. "Part lab, part German Shepherd, part something else. Giddy as hell."

"Sounds like fun," House said.

"He's a regular riot," Wilson said.

House pushed the jello around some more and Wilson said, "You're gonna have to do better than that."

House sighed. "I really don't want to," he mumbled.

"Why?"

"Sore," House said quietly, almost to himself. Then louder, "I don't see the point anyway. Not when there's this," he gestured to the IV.

"You know damn well what the point is," Wilson growled.

"I know that that cat better show up soon," House evaded. "Wrestling's over. Lois and Clark. No way," he said and started channel surfing again.

"House..."

"The soup's cold, the milk's warm and I don't like red jello," House said in a huff.

"Everyone likes red jello," Wilson said.

"Apparently not," House said, "because I don't."

Wilson was out the door before House could try to stop him.

Shit.

Double shit.

He was in for it.

But until 'it' came back, he might as well find a more suitable program. He flipped around and finally settled on detective drama. Not his favorite but he wasn't in the mood to watch anything anyway.

Wilson came back with his hands full: a new pack of fluids, an ice pack, and two cups of jello, orange and green.

He put the ice pack on House's hand before House could protest. "Don't move that," he said.

He opened the two cups of jello and put them in front of House.

"You're going to eat one of these," he said, "or I'm going to tell Cuddy about last night. Even if you win, she'd knock a week or two off on principle."

House stared at him, slightly shocked and very impressed. "O...kay," he said and dug his spoon into one of the cups as Wilson changed the IV bag.

"You could've gotten red," House said sulkily as Wilson sat down next to him again. "I like red."

"Shut up," Wilson said. "I'm watching television."

* * *

They watched the detective show in silence, Wilson glancing at House every now and then to make sure he was eating. He didn't like threatening House but there were times when it was the only way to get through to him.

There'd been times just like this in the months after the infarction. He'd come off rounds and pop into House's room to check on him, keep him company—he wasn't exactly fending visitors off with a stick—sit through part of an A.M. show with him, bring him magazines or journals, anything he could do. After House had been there a little over a week, he started hearing from the nurses that his friend was eating less. He hadn't been eating much as it was, being on so much pain medication, but they were beginning to worry. No pain, no nausea, he said, felt fine, just wasn't hungry. He said he'd talk to him about it.

He came in one evening to find House channel surfing, dinner tray untouched.

"Hey," Wilson said softly, closing the door. House didn't acknowledge him.

He sat down and watched House pass show after show on TV.

When he flipped past Animal Planet, Wilson said, "Stop there, that's the Crocodile Hunter. Have you seen that yet?"

House shook his head and turned back to the Animal Planet.

"Julie loves it," Wilson said. "The guy's crazy, he wrestles crocodiles and picks up poisonous snakes like they're pieces of rope."

House said nothing. They watched for a time in silence.

Wilson could tell House wasn't paying attention. "Not hungry?" he asked.

House shook his head again.

"The nurses are starting to talk," Wilson said.

"Let them," House said quietly, his voice rusty.

They were silent again.

After a while, Wilson said softly, "She came to see you yesterday."

One of the nurses had mentioned House's female visitor, happy to see him getting a visit from someone other than Wilson.

House nodded, unable to speak.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked.

"I don't know," House whispered, looking at the floor.

Wilson didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. House had been there for him in the same situation many times, but now he was happy, things were going well with Julie, and he didn't know what to do, other than wish fervently that all of this crap hadn't hit House at once.

He opened his bag and saw House look up out of the corner of his eye at the unmistakable rustling sound of a fast food bag.

"Contraband," House said and sniffed the air hopefully.

Wilson smiled. "Yep," he said, handing him a cheeseburger.

"You're my hero," House said, greedily unwrapping the burger and taking a big bite.

Wilson unwrapped another burger. "You're my excuse," he said.

House looked at him in puzzlement, sauce on his chin.

"It's contraband for me too," Wilson explained. "If Julie finds out, you've got to back me up, say I could only get you to eat it if I ate one too."

"She's henpecking you already?" House asked around a mouthful of food. "You're not even married to her yet."

Wilson shrugged.

"You are so whipped," he said, taking another bite. "Think she'd buy that?"

"She already knows you haven't been eating much," Wilson said.

House shrugged. "The food here's definitely not McDonald's quality," House said. "And lying around all day doesn't exactly build up the appetite."

"Yeah," Wilson said, letting it go. He wasn't going to push the issue; he was happy to see House scarfing the burger now. "They're starting PT tomorrow," he said.

House swallowed. "I thought that wasn't for a few days," he said.

"It's been a few days," Wilson said, fishing another burger out of the bag and handing it to him.

"Oh," House said, finishing the first burger and unwrapping the second.

"Slow down," Wilson said. He was only half-way through his first burger. "You're gonna make yourself sick."

"Don't care," House said, biting into the second. "I'm starving."

Wilson laughed and shook his head. "You look like that crocodile," he said, pointing to the TV.

House looked up and saw Steve Irwin toss the animal a chunk of meat. "Nah," he said, "I'm chewing, the crocodile isn't."

"I don't think what you're doing qualifies as chewing," Wilson said.

House looked exasperated. "First you hound me for not eating, then you hound me for eating too much. Does Julie like that quality in you?" House asked.

"She doesn't mind," Wilson said defensively.

"Sure she doesn't," House said, smiling around a mouthful of food.

"Shut up," Wilson said, also smiling.

"Oooo, touched a nerve, did I?" House said wickedly.

Wilson sent him a smoldering look.

House feigned being stung. "Got any beer in that bag?" he asked.

"Nope," Wilson said. "I'm only breaking one rule at a time today."

"That's too bad," House said. "It's much more fun when you disregard the rules entirely."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wilson said. He smiled to himself. Things had gone better than he'd hoped.

Thinking about that day now, Wilson wished he had a bag full of cheeseburgers, that things were as simple now as they were then—which was saying a lot, because things certainly hadn't been simple then.

He looked over at House. Asleep. Most of the jello gone.

Sleep wasn't a bad idea. It had been a long day. Wilson leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.


	11. Night Two: Cat Anatomy

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay in updating! And as always, thanks to everyone who's reviewed. :)

* * *

**Night Two: Cat Anatomy**

"A one-armed combat instructor called Cliff (yes, I know - he taught unarmed combat, and he only had one arm - very occasionally life is like that) once told me that pain was a thing you did to yourself. Other people did things to you - they hit you, or stabbed you, or tried to break your arm - but pain was of your own making. Therefore, said Cliff, who had spent a fortnight in Japan and so felt entitled to unload dogshit of this sort on his eager charges, it was always within your power to stop your own pain. Cliff was killed in a pub brawl three months later by a fifty-five-year-old widow, so I don't suppose I'll ever have a chance to set him straight.

Pain is an event. It happens to you and you deal with it in whatever way you can."

—Thomas Lang, _The Gun Seller_ by Hugh Laurie

House's pager woke Wilson around 10:30. Wilson answered it: "Got cat." He looked at House, who was still sleeping, snoring softly, melted ice pack on his fingers, IV bag empty, looking worn out even as he slept.

Wilson sighed. He knew House was a light sleeper from having roomed with him. The fact that the pager didn't wake him up...

But he also knew it would be suicidal _not_ to wake him up now. If he checked the time stamp of the page and found out Wilson had let him sleep, there'd be hell to pay.

He nudged House's left shoulder. "House, wake up," he said softly.

"Hhhnn."

Wilson nudged him harder. "Get up," he said, "cat's here."

The jarring of his arm woke him. For a moment there was only pain—in his arm, in his leg, in his head, in his stomach—and all he could do was groan.

Wilson removed his hands, startled at the depth and severity of House's groan.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

House was breathing hard and gritting his teeth against the pain. "Peachy," he said tightly.

Wilson got up and busied himself with the disposal of their dinner, doing his best not to look in House's direction while House adjusted to the pain. He knew that however much House hated people seeing him in pain, what he hated more was people watching him when he couldn't hold it back anymore.

"Cat here?" House asked, his voice edged with pain.

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"Unhook me and let me up, then," he said, trying to pull himself up with his right hand and failing miserably. He tried not to groan again. The pain was unbelievable.

Wilson hesitated. "I don't know if I should. I can autopsy the cat for you," he offered.

"You don't know what I'm looking for," House said, still in too much pain from his escape attempt to be impatient with Wilson.

"What _are_ you looking for?" Wilson asked.

"I'll know it when I see it," House said, feeling the pain become manageable again. "Come on," he said, gesturing to the IV, "I could pull this out myself, but it would hurt."

House was grumpy again, back to normal. "Okay," Wilson said. He stood and pulled a pair of gloves out of the box beside the bed.

"Hurry up," House said as Wilson got a cotton ball and some tape, "I have to pee."

"Patience, patience," Wilson said, smiling to himself.

"Patience is for the dead," House said, "and what's-his-name will be joining them soon if you don't hurry."

"Keith," Wilson said, as he pulled the cannula out and set it aside.

"Whatever," House replied. He really had to pee—his bladder was bursting—but after a few hours of lying still in a bed, he had to prepare for the stiffness that would accompany movement. One problem with a bum leg was that you couldn't toss and turn to keep the stiffness at bay.

He picked up the melted ice pack and put it aside, getting ready to get up. He looked at his hand. His second and third fingers were a nice shade of deep blue. For the first time, he regretted choosing his hand to break. Autopsying the cat was going to hurt like hell.

He took a deep breath and pushed himself up with his right hand, turning sideways to do it, trying to shut off the pain from his leg at the movement. He'd only made it half way when his muscles started giving and he was silently grateful to Wilson for helping him the rest of the way up. Not stopping to let the pain register, he grabbed his right leg and thrust it over the side of the bed, holding the rail with his right hand to keep him steady.

The movement caught up with him and pain exploded in his leg, shooting up to his brain so fast that he felt tears in his eyes. He was so dizzy with the movement that his stomach couldn't take it and he choked out the word "basin" as bile rose in his throat. Wilson was either quick on the draw or just saw it coming and handed him one just in time. There wasn't much in his stomach to come up; he retched painfully instead. He could feel the muscles straining. It wouldn't be long before he pulled one. Great.

Wilson was very worried. He would look back on this moment and kick himself for not admitting House immediately.

House set the basin aside and tried to catch his breath. If he had been telepathic, he wouldn't have heard Wilson's thoughts more clearly.

"It's not going to stop," he said panting, "until the pain goes away." He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to keep the pain out of his voice, "So whatever you're thinking, forget it."

Wilson tried to protest, "But-"

"No," House said, cutting him off. Everything was secondary to the cat in the basement right now.

"Okay," Wilson said grudgingly. "I'm going to run home, feed the dog, and come right back. I'll meet you outside the morgue when you're done. Don't play hooky on me this time."

"I won't," House said sincerely. He held up his left hand. "Can you take the tape off?" he asked. "I need both hands for this."

Wilson muttered something about morons breaking their hands and began carefully pulling off the tape. House clenched his jaw, wondering if he might break his teeth this way, until the tape was off. He slowly stood, feeling blood rush from his head as he did, and swayed dangerously but remained upright.

Wilson helped him to the bathroom and cracked the door.

House looked over his shoulder at him. "Little privacy?"

"You want it closed, do it yourself," Wilson said, his back to the door.

He heard House mumble various obscenities and the sound of urine hitting water. It wasn't so much that he was a voyeur deep down but that he didn't trust a person who couldn't sit up without barfing to stand without fainting. He heard the toilet flush and water running from the sink. No slips, no falls, good. He'd speak to Cuddy tomorrow when she arrived about giving House the week off to recover. He didn't think he'd have to fight hard to win that argument. Not with Cuddy, anyway.

"Don't just stand there staring into space," House said, "hand me my cane and let's go."

Wilson obliged. House hadn't even taken his shoes off, so there was no need to get dressed. He could see that House had started sweating again when they entered the harsh light of the corridor.

He stayed close to House's right side, matching his pace with the other man's, marveling at the stubborn will House had to dissect a cat in the middle of the night when he could hardly stand up because it _might_ hold a clue to the case he was working on. 'Dedication' was an understatement.

They made it to the elevator without any mishaps and down to the basement with no stops. Chase and Foreman, who'd been lounging in the hall, snapped to attention as House and Wilson appeared.

"Cat's in there," Foreman said, indicating the room with his head.

"Remarkably well-intact for a month's decomposition," Chase said.

"Good to know," House growled as he pushed past them and into the autopsy bay.

Chase and Wilson looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously. Foreman stood by stonily.

"He shouldn't be here," Foreman hissed.

Wilson just shrugged. "You know what he's like," he said.

Chase and Foreman shook their heads and started down the hallway while Wilson went inside the room.

The smell was horrific. He found House dry-heaving into a sink. "The...smell..." House choked out between heaves. Wilson nodded and pulled an apron off of a hook on the wall.

When House was finished and resting his head against the ledge of the sink, Wilson said quietly, "I can do the cutting while you watch."

"Thanks," House said, swallowing another heave, "but I can do it much faster." He spat into the sink and pulled the handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe his mouth. "I know what I'm looking for."

"Okay," Wilson said, holding the apron out to him. House straightened up and took it, Wilson helping him tie it in the back.

"I'll be back in about an hour."

House nodded and Wilson left.

Gloves. Needed two gloved hands for this. He wondered briefly if he could manage with one hand or somehow justify the health risk of leaving that hand ungloved.

He sighed to himself and plucked a glove out of the box, sitting down on the stool. God, the cat stunk. Foreman and Chase could've at least sprayed some Lysol. He clenched his jaw and slowly slid the glove over his fingers, wincing as the latex rubbed against his bruised skin. He yelped as the holes made his fingers separate and stretch, breathing hard and sweating. He snarled angrily at his hand, trying to bite the pain back. Wasn't working. _Breathe, breathe, breathe_.

The smell of the cat brought him back to himself and he coughed, not breathing so deeply anymore. Where were the masks? He spotted them across the room. What moron put them over there? He sighed again. This was taking too much time. He hadn't even gotten a glove on his right hand yet.

Getting that glove on hurt less—he used his teeth—but he wasn't about to get up and walk across the room. Inhaling a little dead cat never did anyone any harm...

He wheeled the stool over to the cat. Someone had laid out the tools he'd need. How nice. He'd be sure to remember not to put tabasco sauce in their coffee tomorrow.

Before he could make the first incision, Cameron burst into the room. "The liver's here," she said, "they're prepping Keith for surgery right now."

He nodded in acknowledgement and turned back to the cat. Now he was running on negative time.

He sliced the cat open and pinned back skin and muscle, moving quickly but mindful of his left hand. The liver. The liver first.

His hand shook as he picked up the scissors—pain, weakness, detoxing, it was all coming back. He breathed again, trying to stop the shaking, feeling sick and sweaty but also excited. It was the liver, he just had to get to it. He got the shaking under control, wiping his forehead with his right shoulder, and clipped the stomach at the esophagus and duodenum, removing it and setting it aside. There it was, the liver. He removed it carefully and held it up. Shrunken—not surprising—and covered in...what _was _that?

He put the liver on the table and picked up the scalpel to figure out just what that substance was.

His mind began spinning out possibilities—what could a cat be exposed to that would do that kind of damage to its liver?—ruling out some and setting others aside for later.

Wincing at the pressure he had to put on his left hand to hold the liver in place, he extracted some of the material intertwined in it. Thick, golden... House cat... What was in a house cat's environment that could cause this...whatever it was...to form around the liver?

He didn't know. What he did know was that the cat had died of internal bleeding. Needed more to go on. He'd check the stomach contents next.

What was kitty's last meal... He opened the stomach and dug around in its congealed contents until he found it—legs, small spindly legs—an insect. Chase was right. Remarkably well-preserved for a month in the ground. Probably by the freezing weather. And stinking like a goddamn garbage barge now that it had thawed out.

An insect. Cats ate all kinds of insects. Which insect would do this? If the insect was related at all. Poor house cat, so underfed it was reduced to eating insects. Hmm...underfed...

It took him a few minutes to figure out the answer. He was definitely off his game today.

But he had it: Termites. Naphthalene. Naphthalene poisoning, in the kid as well as the cat. Fat soluble. Kid starts dropping pounds and... It explained everything.

Time to stop an unnecessary surgery.

Adrenaline took over he stood up and reached automatically with his left hand to pull the right glove off, hitting and bending his delicate fingers in the process.

Pain exploded in his head and his leg must've given out because he was on the floor before he knew what had happened.

He must have screamed also because Cameron was suddenly all over him, asking him questions, helping him move so he could lean against the cabinet, treating him like he'd just...well, like he'd just taken a nasty spill.

Damn.

_Damn_.

He'd never live it down.

She was saying something about getting help when his voice came back to him. "No," he said weakly.

"Dr. House, you're-"

"No," he said again. "I'm fine," he said, squeezing his eyes shut against a fresh wave of pain, "floor's slippery is all."

She looked him over. He was in horrible shape. She'd seen his hands shaking earlier. Foreman had burst into the lab talking about tranquilizer guns after their last meeting. It didn't take him long to spill the beans about the sushi. She knew Wilson had been looking after him, but there was only so much the human body could take.

"Save it," he said gruffly. "Either help me up or leave."

This happened every time! She went from wanting to bundle him into bed and feed him chicken soup to wanting to hit him and scream at him in two seconds flat. What she hated most of all was that he could—and did—play her so well.

House watched compassion turn to fury and smiled to himself. Now things would get done. She was entirely too easy. It was sad, really.

When she held out her hand, he said, "Not gonna work. Get the cane and go from the left."

She obeyed, handing him his cane. Little by little they got him to his knees and then to his feet. He tried not to grunt and snort like an animal. If he didn't feel like puking, this would be nice, feeling the hands of a woman he felt something, anything for on his chest and back. She smelled nice, her shampoo. He missed that, the way nice girls smelled. It had been a long time. But Cameron was...Cameron. She was hot, sure, great rack, but he respected her and he was old enough to be her father. Off limits. Besides that, he actually liked her. He liked her too much to do anything about it even if he'd had feelings in the first place, which he didn't. Still, he shivered a little when she took her warm hands away and left him standing on his own.

She looked into his eyes, worry lines furrowing her forehead again. "You're sure you're-"

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Thanks. Which OR is-" he searched for the name. Kevin? Chris? Something with a 'kuh' sound first.

"Keith," she supplied.

"Right, Keith," he said. "Which OR is Keith-" The fingers of his left hand jerked involuntarily and cut him off, sending sharp pain directly to his brain. He sucked in a breath and fought the urge to curse as the pain reached its crescendo.

She saw him go pale and stepped forward, guiding him onto the stool. "What is it?" she asked.

He couldn't speak.

This wasn't going to work. He needed his fingers taped again.

He wished Wilson would get back... He wished... He wished that... He sighed: he wished alot of things. But it could be worse. It could be Foreman. It could be Cuddy. God, that would really be hell on earth.

"Can you get some tape?" he asked shakily, holding up his left hand, still gloved, by way of explanation, feeling drained again. Pain had scared off the adrenaline rush.

She nodded and when he saw her leaving the room, he called out, "No splint, just tape. Should be some around here somewhere," he gestured to the room.

She nodded again and began searching for tape in the cabinets.

House slumped on the stool, feeling very tired. He realized he still had had both hands gloved and began carefully working the left glove off with his right hand. He was pulling at the right one with his left thumb, so intent on the process that he didn't notice Cameron approach until she was pulling the glove off for him. She didn't say anything. He was grateful to her for that.

He tried not to show how bad the pain was as she taped his fingers together. She tried not to say anything about the shape his hand was in, or the shape the rest of him was in.

She wrapped the last piece of tape tightly around his fingers. "He's in O.R. Four," she said.

"Thanks," he said sincerely. The last jolts of pain from having his fingers taped had woken him up again and he carefully picked up a pair of tweezers with his left thumb and forefinger, grabbing the yellowed wad of insect with them and standing up.

"What did you find?" she asked curiously.

"Termites," he said, briskly heading for the door. He'd wasted too much time already. Cameron watched him go, wondering if he'd lost it entirely, and began to clean up the remains of the cat. He'd obviously gotten what he needed.

* * *

The trip from the basement to O.R. Four was quick. Another adrenaline rush hit him in the elevator and he felt great as he stepped onto the surgical floor. He was about to make another enemy for life. That appealed to him enough on its own. Saving the kid was just icing.

He glanced at the board as he walked by the nurse's station. Hourani. Rats. Hourani already hated him. No new enemies today.

He pulled the door open just as Hourani was about to make the first incision.

"Stop the gases," he said dramatically.

Motion caught up with him when he stopped moving and he swayed a bit, tiredness flooding back.

Hourani was _pissed_. "What the hell are you doing, House?" he shouted.

He shuffled forward. "Saving a sixteen-year-old kid from a lifetime of immunosuppressant drugs and a very nasty scar," he said wearily. "This kid doesn't have lupoid hepatitis. He has acute naphthalene toxicity."

Hourani was exasperated. "Naphthalene," he said dubiously, reaching for words to express the absurdity of the situation, "You're talking about mothballs."

"Nope," House said brandishing the wad of insect, "Termites."

Everyone turned their attention to the little ball he had. "They create naphthalene to protect their nests," he said, "which I'm assuming is rather large and is inside all four walls of his bedroom at home."

He tossed the tweezers with the naphthalene onto the sterile surgical tools. _Like to see you do your surgery now_.

Hourani looked like he was about to herniate. "And your assumption is based on what?" he asked testily.

"The autopsy I just conducted on his pet cat," House said smugly, trying to retain his smugness and not fall over at the same time.

Hourani didn't think twice. "Call Cuddy," he barked, "and security." A nurse scurried out of the room.

_Shit_. _Not much time now_. The adrenaline was long gone. He was flagging and they weren't listening. And they could always open a new tray, so he'd have to come up with a better way to contaminate the field.

"You are not removing that kid's liver," he said wearily.

Hourani still wasn't listening. Best way to stop an operation? Take out the surgeon. He made a show of coughing something up and spat on Hourani's gown.

"Have you completely lost your mind!" Hourani yelled. He always did have a short fuse.

"No," House said, "but I have been feeling a little sick lately." He sneezed into the air and grabbed a towel to wipe his nose, tossing it onto the kid's draped body. He did an about-face and stalked out, grinning wickedly.

He heard Hourani yell again once he was in the corridor. That guy really needed a good yoga class.

Now they'd have to wait for the kid to come out of sedation to try it again—if they were stupid enough to try it again. Either way, he'd bought himself a little time to rest before the shit hit the fan. And he needed it, the way he felt.

He passed two security officers in the hallway. He nodded at them. "Tom," he said, "Frank."

They nodded back. "Dr. House," they said in tandem.

There were times when it was good to know the night security guys and now was definitely one of those times. He had no desire to be manhandled by a bunch of police academy dropouts.

He had made it to the elevator and was just starting to wonder where Wilson was—it had been a good hour and twenty minutes by his internal clock, and although that clock wasn't too reliable at the moment, it had definitely been more than an hour—when the doors opened and Wilson appeared looking very pissed off.

"Where were you!" he shouted at House.

"Shh," House said reproachfully, entering the elevator, "you'll wake the patients."

Wilson shot daggers with his eyes but stayed silent.

House seized the opportunity. "Home, Jeeves," he said, leaning heavily on his cane as the elevator doors closed.

* * *

Wilson wasn't exactly sure where 'home' was, so he let House lead when the elevator reached the fourth floor. He almost didn't care where House led him, he was so angry right now.

He'd come back and found the autopsy room empty, no House, no cat. He doubled checked to make sure he had the right room. Yep, right room. He started getting anxious. He went up to House's office next. Dark, door locked. He felt panic setting in. Next? The lab? Why not. Thank God he'd found Cameron there with the remains of the cat.

"Dr. Wilson," she said, surprised at seeing him. He looked pretty rough—tired, rumpled, unshaven. She'd never seen him looking anything but fresh and boyish. Keeping up with House wasn't exactly an easy job, though. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"Where's House?" he asked.

"OR Four," she answered.

Wilson's stomach lurched. House couldn't do so much damage to himself in an hour that he'd end up in an OR, could he? Rationality told him no. Experience told him yes. They would've paged him, though, right? Right?

Cameron saw the color drain from Wilson's face and immediately qualified her statement, saying, "That is, Keith is in OR Four. Dr. House found something in the cat and left without explaining."

He immediately felt the panic dissipate, the beginnings of anger taking its place. He'd done it again. The bastard.

She took her glasses off, looking at him. "He didn't look that great. Is he okay?" she asked.

Wilson looked at her, seeing the depth of concern on her face.

He liked her. He didn't know her that well, but from what he could tell, she was a younger, better version of himself, of what he'd been at her age, before he started making the big mistakes that had come to define his life. Well, maybe that was going a little too far. At the least, she cared about House despite the fact that he made it nearly impossible for anyone to care about him. She was tenacious and he respected her for that. And she hadn't been there, hadn't known him before the infarction, hadn't known him as a loyal friend, as a relatively normal person.

He knew what it was like to care for someone he didn't know—he did it every day, it came naturally to him—but House was different. Cameron's motivation remained something of a mystery to him. Still, he was repeatedly taken aback by the amount of sympathy she was able to express for a man who did nothing but push her away. He also knew that House had hurt her a few times already. He remembered how House had ordered him to make sure she broke the bad news to that couple who'd lost a baby a few months ago, how he'd had to do it himself because, unlike House, he had a soul. House had been unbelievably callous that week. He'd never been one to spare a person's feelings, but he wouldn't have pushed her to her breaking point if this had happened before his leg got messed up. She hadn't known him then. And yet she kept coming back.

She was definitely an enigma to him.

But now wasn't the time to ruminate.

House was loose in an OR and that couldn't possibly be good.

"He's as okay as you'd expect him to be, I guess, given the situation," Wilson answered tiredly.

"You're not worried?" she asked.

"About him?" he asked.

She nodded yes.

Wilson looked down. "Yes, I am," he said. "Most of the time."

He looked back up at her. She was very pretty. He remembered when House had shown him her picture when he was hiring, how they'd ogled her. Now, though, she wasn't just a picture. He respected her. And she was strictly, _strictly_ off-limits. Which made her that much more of a— He stopped that train of thought. Now wasn't the time.

She looked like she was expecting more of an answer than that.

"But he's been in worse trouble before and come out of it squeaky clean," he said, "so I wouldn't worry if I were you."

He tried to smile to hammer home the meaning of his words, but Cameron only saw a tired, dedicated doctor trying to corral his bullheaded friend. She'd keep worrying, even when she knew she couldn't help the situation. Worrying was all she had sometimes.

She didn't know what else to say, so she simply nodded, dismissing him.

He waited till he rounded the corner before he started tearing down the hall to the elevator. He was annoyed when it didn't open immediately, feeling anger build inside him. House had done it again. Again. The _bastard_. He wasn't sure how much of this he could take. He'd been alternately relieved and irate when he ran into House at the elevators.

And now, as he followed House down the hall and into his office, he wondered why he still did it, why he still let himself get so worked up whenever the least little thing about House seemed off. It was usually nothing, but there had been times in the past when it was something and he'd missed nipping it in the bud because he respected House's right to solitude. Like the time a few years ago when House had caught "a nasty cold" that had hung around for a month or so until it turned into pneumonia and he broke a rib coughing, which he claimed he didn't notice because of the pain killers. Like how House's clothes didn't fit so well anymore, how they hung too loosely on him, how they used to fit him perfectly. The past few days hadn't helped that at all. What House needed was a good hot dog eating contest. That's what Wilson was more worried about than anything else—House was wasting away in front of him. Speaking of that, why were they in House's office? Oh shit. What had he done in the OR. It must be big.

House settled himself into his chair, holding his left arm against his stomach again, resting his head in his right hand, shaking, tired beyond belief. He really wanted to lie down, but sitting would do for now. He felt himself sinking, he was so tired.

Wilson stood there, hands on his hips, unsure of where to begin. House looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. How much anger should he unleash? How much could House take right now?

Before he could decide what level of anger to go for, he shifted his weight and House's head snapped up. He looked at Wilson in confusion.

"Oh," he said gruffly, "you're still here." He let his head drop back into his hand. "Pull up a chair," he said, "it won't be long."

Wilson still didn't know what to say, torn between anger and concern. He wanted to yell, to shout, make a scene, make House reckon for his behavior. Instead, he got a chair out of the conference room and put it down opposite House, the desk in between them. House was breathing raggedly.

"Aren't you going to ask what I did?" he said, not looking up. He really wanted to lie down and sleep, but he knew Cuddy would be after his blood very soon and didn't relish the thought of her bursting in on him while he was trying to rest. Somehow the power dynamics of him lying on a bed and her standing over him were less than appealing.

Wilson still didn't know what to say. Responses sprang to mind, but he couldn't use any of them. He felt is chest burn with suppressed rage.

House looked up again. "Cat got your tongue?" he quipped.

He saw Wilson's jaw clench, the anger in his eyes.

"You okay?" House asked.

"No, I'm not okay," Wilson said tersely.

House waited for him to go on.

"I was really worried," he said after a while, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "You said you'd stay there. You don't know what ran through my head when you weren't there."

House instantly felt guilty. He hadn't realized that Wilson was _that_ worried about him. But at the same time, he felt angry. No one should have to worry about him. He could take care of himself. He didn't need anyone watching over him.

God, his leg was killing him. Cuddy'd better hurry up so he could get the kid started on the proper treatment and lie down.

"You shouldn't worry like that," he said dully.

That was it. Wilson couldn't handle any more. He snapped.

"And why not!" he yelled. "Why not! Dammit, House, why do you make this so hard? Why!"

House sighed. He couldn't deal with this right now. For once in his life, he actually wanted to see Cuddy.

He couldn't think of a comeback. God, he felt like shit.

When House didn't respond, Wilson sprang from the chair and headed for the door. He wasn't going to take any more of this right now. "I'll be back," he snarled, yanking the door open and stalking down the hall.

House sighed as he heard the door close behind Wilson. He knew he should feel something, that he should care, but he couldn't. Guilt was gone, fatigue in its place. Would this never end?

But Wilson's leaving also agitated him. Now he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he could. Guilt and anger had stirred him up again just as quickly as tiredness had stamped him down.

Damn, damn, damn. Cuddy was taking too long. He'd round up the ducklings and get the treatment started right away instead of waiting for her. He needed to do _something_ to alleviate the restlessness he felt.

He paged each of them with the kid's room number. They'd get it.

He braced himself and stood. He needed to get this over with quick.

He felt the familiar jump in his stomach as the elevator descended. Only 36 or so hours to go. He could do this. He was rounding the curve, coming into the homestretch.

He stepped out of the elevator to find all three of them congregated nearby. They'd beat him there. What were they, attached at the hip?

Chase stepped forward. "You wanted to see us?" he asked, hands on his hips.

"Yeah," House said, leaning on his cane. "Is uh-"

"Keith," Cameron supplied.

"Keith, right, is Keith back from surgery yet?" he asked.

They exchanged bewildered glances. Foreman figured it out first.

"What!" he shouted.

"Don't yell," House said softly, closing his eyes. His head was killing him. Must've been the fumes.

"What do you mean, back from surgery?" Cameron said angrily. "What did you do?"

"He doesn't have lupus," House explained. "He doesn't need a new liver. He's got naphthalene poisoning. There's not going to be a surgery. I stopped it." He longed to rub a hand across his face but he didn't have a hand to spare.

"Naphthalene?" Foreman said. "You interrupted this kid's transplant for another one of your wild-ass theories? You've lost it. You really have."

Foreman started wishing he'd pushed Cuddy and Wilson harder about taking House off this case. The man was not in his right mind.

Cameron's voice rose, "You stopped his surgery!" She should have seen it coming when he'd asked about the OR and she berated herself for not catching it.

"I said that, didn't I?" House said tiredly. "What about that is hard to understand?"

"Everything," Chase growled. "Where'd you get naphthalene from?"

An orderly came to the elevators with a bed and shooed them away. House started walking toward the kid's room, minions trailing him.

"The cat," House said. Good thing he was still restless or this would hurt alot more. "Termites. She died of internal bleeding induced by acute naphthalene poisoning."

"This kid needs a new liver," Foreman said. "Termites have nothing to do with it. You make us dig up a dead cat and base your diagnosis on that?" He started toward the nurse's station. "I'm calling psych," he said. Chase held him back.

House sighed. They could be so thick. "All he needs is a heavy dose of calories and he'll be good as new. Start him on a high-cal drip and you'll see him improve immediately." He started walking again at a good clip and they followed.

Foreman couldn't stand it. This was tantamount to murder in his book. "You've already cost him his liver," he said, "don't kill him too!"

"Why are you so eager to cut into a healthy kid?" House asked.

"Healthy?" Chase said angrily, "he's in the toilet!"

"He just needs some chicken soup," House replied dismissively.

Chase stopped and the others stopped with him. House too stopped when he didn't hear them following him anymore.

"I'm telling Hourani to re-scrub," Chase said. "We're doing this transplant."

"No, you're not," House said tiredly. They always had to fight him, didn't they. Damn them.

"You said it!" Chase said. "If Keith's symptoms had an environmental cause, they would have disappeared as soon as he got here."

Cameron backed Chase up. "They've only gotten worse," he said.

"If the food here wasn't one step below Riker's Island he would've gotten better," House said. "He's lost fourteen pounds." Why couldn't they see it?

"Yeah, sure," Foreman said, punk-assed. "This is nothing but a dietary thing."

So he had to spell it out for them again. Great. Just what he needed.

"Naphthalene is a gas, a fat soluble gas," he said. "The kid breathes it in, it gets stored in his fat cells. Outside the hospital his body burned protein and carbs for energy, and the naphthalene stayed in fat. But once the car accident put him in the hospital, and he started losing weight, his body had to get its energy somewhere else. It started to burn fat. The floodgates opened, the poison poured into his system." There. Easy.

"So, getting away from the poison is what poisoned him?" Foreman said, punk-assed again.

He'd done his job. They had their orders. He was going to go back to his office now and die.

"Getting him away from his dad's meatloaf is what's killing him," he said, rounding the corner to go back to the elevators.

Suddenly Cuddy and the dad were on top of him.

Cuddy was pissed. "You wanna explain to me why you stopped the surgery?" she said.

But House only half-heard her. He was more focused on the big guy barreling down on him. The guy was too fast for him. One second he saw him pulling back his right arm to swing and the next he was stumbling, right leg giving out, hitting the wall and sinking to the floor, dazed by the punch. The world went thick around him. His leg screamed.

He heard the dad yell something and felt Cuddy and Cameron on top of him. Jesus. Women. He waved them off. The guy hadn't been holding back, but he'd taken much worse shots than that in the past.

His head started to clear and he touched his lip to see if he was bleeding. The surprise of the punch triggered enough adrenaline that he felt good. He felt great, actually. The pain in his leg receded. He should get punched more often. He wasn't even angry. Just amused, really. He even felt like explaining to this bastard what he'd just explained to his increasingly incompetent staff.

"Your cat did not die of old age," he said, wondering why he sounded so tired when he felt so good. Maybe it was because all of his weight was resting on his bum leg. "He died of massive internal bleeding and acute liver failure caused by naphthalene poisoning, the exact same thing your son has."

The guy struggled against Chase and Foreman. "You lie to me, you mess up my son's surgery, and now you expect me to trust you?" he spat.

"Give me twenty-four hours," House said. Why did he sound tired? "We'll pump your son full of calories–"

Cuddy jumped in. "That liver is going to somebody right now," she said.

"We're doing that surgery," the dad said.

He felt like he could stand up now. His leg registered as pain, but it was only a blip on the radar. Moving didn't hurt so much. Nevertheless, he went slowly. His body flatly refused to move fast.

"If you do the surgery," he said, getting to his feet, "you'll be killing a mother of four."

"Father of three," Cuddy interjected, rolling her eyes.

"I was guessing," House said, sighing. He could feel the adrenaline wearing off, exhaustion creeping back in. Pain. He was going to have a bruise on his hip from hitting the wall. That was going to suck big time. He was glad he couldn't feel it very much right now.

"Like you are now?" the dad said angrily.

So he'd go through it again. God, people were such idiots. He was so tired.

"Naphthalene poisoning is the best explanation we have for what's wrong with your son," he said. "It explains the internal bleeding, the hemolytic anemia, the liver failure. It also predicts what'll happen next. If you do the surgery he's gonna lay on that table for fourteen hours while his body continues to burn fat and release poison into his system."

He thought for a moment. The logic was flawless. There was even something else he could toss out there. "Either way," he said, "I did you a favor. He's awake now, you've got a chance to say goodbye." Look at that, compassion. Amazing. He really should get punched more often.

He could hear the wheels in the guy's head turning. Come on. Choose. Choose fast. But make the right choice. Dammit, parental consent was a waste of his time.

He saw the dad look over to Cameron and Cameron, bless her, backed him up. "I think you should trust Dr. House," she said.

They looked at the dad, the agony of the decision on his face. "Give the liver to the other guy," he finally said.

Cuddy nodded and left, looking relieved.

"Come on, Mr. Foster," Foreman said, "let's go see your son."

The dad followed him.

"I'll go hang a high-cal bag," Chase said, backing away from the scene, his thumb thrust behind his shoulder.

So it was down to him and Cameron again. Shit. More of that look he hated.

Instead, Cameron surprised him. "Can you make it to your office?" she asked shortly.

He nodded.

"Good," she said tersely and turned on her heel and left.

That was weird.

He put his finger to his lip again and it came back bloody. Now all he needed was a swift kick in the groin and he'd be totally out of commission. On the other hand, his job was done. He was absolutely certain about this diagnosis. He would wait while time proved him right.

He leaned against the wall, feeling shaky as the adrenaline wore off. They had come around. It had taken a lot out of him, but they'd come around. He'd figured it out. Despite the pain, despite the withdrawal, despite the odds against it, he'd figured it out. Cuddy was going to eat her words all right.

However, the part of his brain that was vindicated, celebrating, and shouting "I told you so" was getting the stuffing knocked out of it by the rest of his body. Bodies, for the most part, were stupid. Except when it came to sex. Which he wasn't getting any of. Great. Another reason to live.

He closed his eyes and felt himself slowly sinking down the wall, knees shaking, unaware of time, when a voice cut into the tired haze surrounding him.

"House?"

It was Wilson. Wilson? Wasn't he pissed? Shit. But he didn't sound pissed.

House didn't open his eyes and let himself sink more. He didn't care whether Wilson was pissed or not. He was too tired. He wanted to feel the floor beneath him and go to sleep.

"House? Cuddy told me what happened," Wilson said, sounding not-pissed again—concerned, yeah that was it, he sounded concerned. Worried. Shit.

But he really didn't care at all. He could feel his left knee start giving under the weight of his body.

He felt Wilson catch him before he could fall, ducking under his left side. He groaned as Wilson jostled his arm, but he didn't open his eyes. This was the last adrenaline crash his body could handle. He'd be perfectly content to slide down to the floor, curl up and sleep, if Wilson would only let him. Leg be damned. Hand be damned. Jaw be damned. All of it.

"We need a wheelchair over here," he heard Wilson shout. For once, he wouldn't protest. He knew he wasn't going anywhere under his own power right now.

He leaned heavily against Wilson and felt another pair of hands on his right side, then he felt Wilson move and then felt himself being lowered into the wheelchair. He sagged in it, letting his head loll on his chest. He couldn't fight any more.

He heard movement around him and the rustle of clothes as Wilson knelt next to him. He felt Wilson take his hand and say, "House, can you hear me?"

He made a low noise in his throat. He couldn't speak, couldn't lift his head to nod.

It must have gotten across because he felt Wilson squeeze his right shoulder, heard him move, felt the chair start moving.

All around him the hospital buzzed. Which was saying a lot, because the night shift was still on and there wasn't that much going on. Every word, every movement, everything was amplified, assaulting his senses. His awareness of pain had returned with a vengeance. His jaw muscles wanted to clench against the jolts his leg was experiencing, but they were tired and ringing themselves from the punch. His mouth hurt. He wanted to cry but he couldn't. Didn't have the energy left for it.

He heard the elevator ding and felt himself being pushed over the threshold. His stomach jumped as the elevator jerked into motion and he swallowed convulsively. Then over the threshold again, his leg shooting pain with the shock of movement.

Wilson had been silent, but now that they were on the way to the room, he ventured a question. He wasn't mad right now. How could he be?

"So the guy punched you?" he asked.

House started at the sound so close to his ears and woke up enough to talk a little. He lifted his head. "Yeah," he whispered, "but he wasn't a good shot."

"Split your lip pretty good," Wilson said.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, feeling it with his tongue and tasting salty, metallic blood. "Another red badge of courage."

"You're really rackin' 'em up this week," Wilson said, opening the door to the room and wheeling House in.

He knelt and moved House's feet off of the foot rests, folding them, trying to be gentle with House's right foot. "Sorry," he said when House grunted.

"Come on," he said, wrapping his right arm around House's left side and picking the man up, "not far." House was limp against him.

He felt Wilson lift him onto the bed and hold him up when he tried to lie down. He felt Wilson's fingers fiddling with his shirt buttons. "Leave it," he said.

Wilson stopped and said nothing, moving instead to carefully lift House's right leg onto the bed.

His body tensed with the pain that shot through him. Then he felt Wilson lifting his left leg. He was too tired to help out.

Wilson turned on the lamp and light in the room made his eyelids orange. He heard Wilson go out the door. He wanted to sleep but couldn't. He felt horribly, sickly overtired.

Coming down from the adrenaline rushes, that must've been it. His stomach and head continued to hurt, now his jaw too. His hip was killing him. Everything, really. But he couldn't relax to sleep.

He'd only felt sleepless and overtired like this a few times before, back during school when he'd stay up for days during finals. When he finally went to crash, he couldn't sleep at all. Every light, every noise, every movement was too much for his over-stimulated nerves. Those days in school felt like nothing compared to this. He felt nauseous again. But he didn't much care if he slept or not; it was enough to be horizontal at the moment, resting, even if he couldn't really relax.

He heard Wilson come back into the room and the rustle of supplies.

"Are you still with me?" Wilson asked.

He ignored Wilson.

"House?" Wilson said, his voice rising. "I need you stay with me." House felt Wilson pat him gently on the cheek.

He grunted in response. That hurt.

"Good," Wilson said.

He heard Wilson moving around the room. "Did you hit your head?" he asked.

"No," House whispered, his voice cracking.

"Okay," Wilson replied. "Cuddy didn't say anything about that, but I'm worried about how lethargic you are. Can you open your eyes for me?"

House had a vague idea of where this was going. "I'm just tired," he whispered. He didn't want to sit through a neurological exam right now.

He heard Wilson's penlight click on. "Open your eyes," he said.

House groaned softly.

"Do it," Wilson said, losing patience.

House brought his right hand up to his face and rubbed it. He opened his eyes, squinting at the light in the room.

He sat through the exam until Wilson was satisfied that he was, in fact, just tired, and let him close his eyes again.

He drifted as Wilson set up his supplies. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck. The light against his eyelids was painful. His stomach churned and he fought the urge to throw up.

He felt the cool swish of the alcohol pad on his left arm and started slightly. Wha? He'd forgotten Wilson was there. He needed to get out of himself somehow. Talking, that was the best way.

"How'd you work this deal out?" he asked tiredly, swallowing against the nausea. "Who's paying for it? Or better yet, does Cuddy know?"

Wilson shook his head. "She doesn't."

Wilson felt a little stab of guilt saying that because Cuddy did in fact know. Hell, it had been her idea. She'd approached him yesterday afternoon. It was either this or _she'd_ admit him. She wasn't about to have a department head keel over in front of everyone because of a stupid bet, nor did she relish the lawsuits, loss of reputation, and sackings that would surely follow the revelation that she'd let him work while he was detoxing. But House didn't need to know that. So the lie came out easily, even if he didn't like having to lie to his best friend, because that best friend was too much of an egotistical jerk to let anyone else help him.

House started swallowing furiously, feeling his stomach heave. Shit, not again. Not again. He didn't have the energy for this.

Wilson saw this and grabbed a basin, ready to prop his friend's head up if he started vomiting.

House kept swallowing, fighting it, his stomach flipping angrily. He felt like crap. Absolute crap.

"House?" Wilson asked.

He felt the urge subside and moaned, holding his stomach with his right arm.

"It's gone," he breathed, feeling relieved.

He opened his eyes, squinting in the light, and saw Wilson put the basin down and go back to starting a new line.

"I'm cleaner than I've been in years but I _look_ more like a drug addict than I ever have," he observed idly, recalling the two puncture wounds in his right arm that made him look like he'd been shooting up, even if they were oddly placed.

"If you'd stay put, it wouldn't be an issue," Wilson said. He started the drip and yawned despite himself.

"Sleepy, are we?" House asked wearily.

Wilson nodded, yawning again. "Unlike you, I need sleep," he said.

House snorted. "Sleep is overrated," he said tiredly.

"Only because you're not getting any," Wilson said.

"Ooo, good one," he responded. "I'm stung."

He felt his left arm going cold with the fluids and shivered. Wilson made a mental note to grab a blanket out of the linen closet. He produced a syringe from no where and House eyed it.

"Phenergan doesn't work," he said tiredly.

"I know," Wilson said. "This is Compazine."

"You're going at this ass-backwards," he said, rolling his eyes. "Did you skip on antiemetic day? Good thing you're not a nurse." His stomach heaved again and he clenched his teeth and swallowed.

Wilson watched him. "And you're complaining?"

House glared at him but he had to swallow again and the effect was ruined. He cursed to himself. "Go ahead," he muttered.

He thought he heard Wilson say, "Good boy," under his breath but wasn't sure. _He better not have_...

He felt the drug burn in his left arm, though not by much. His left arm was burning pretty well on its own. He shivered again and Wilson got a blanket from the closet.

"Shoes on or off?" he asked.

"I think that Nike is the only thing keeping my leg together right now," House said, "so better keep them both on for the sake of uniformity."

Wilson nodded and covered him with the blanket.

"Aww, you gonna kiss me goodnight too?" House said tiredly. The weight of the blanket felt good and he felt himself warming up. He hadn't realized he was cold.

Wilson merely laughed to himself, shaking his head, and got another blanket. He took his shoes and lab coat off and curled up in the chair next to House.

"This is like a slumber party" House said. "Truth or dare?"

Wilson ignored him. "How's the pain?" he asked instead. It was somewhere between three and five in the morning. He wasn't going to tread lightly anymore, not after getting almost no sleep for two days and the ups and downs of the last few hours.

"Painful," House replied in a sleepy voice.

"Fine, be evasive," Wilson said, closing his eyes.

"_Telling_ you about it won't make it any better," House explained. _Why_ was he still talking? _Why _couldn't he relax and sleep? He didn't know. He kept on talking. "And unless you've got a time machine in your garage you've been keeping from me all these years and you can magically transport me to Friday at 3:15, I'm not interested in listening to myself whine."

"That's it," Wilson said sleepily, "you just lost your time machine privileges."

"Bastard."

"Prick."

"Turn on the TV."

"I thought you were tired," Wilson said opening his eyes and yawning again.

"Yeah, so did I," House said quietly. His body needed sleep so badly but he couldn't relax. He felt too sick, too tired. He was in a strange kind of hell.

Wilson nodded to himself as if he'd been expecting this and threw the blanket off, standing.

House watched him curiously as he dug around in his lab coat.

Wilson produced another syringe. "This is optional," he said.

"What is it?" House asked.

"Valium," Wilson said. "Low-dose. Obviously, I won't tell," he said.

What he also wouldn't tell was that Cuddy had authorized him to resort to it if necessary. "You have the day off," she'd said when he ran into her in the hall earlier, after she'd explained the situation, "take care of him." The look on her face had been something akin to sympathetic. She certainly wasn't oblivious to what he was going through. But House didn't need to know that. Wilson imagined that his head would explode if he did.

House knew he needed sleep more than anything else. The bet. He didn't care. He nodded almost imperceptibly and closed his eyes. He felt the drug hit him and relax him, but he knew he had a little time until it put him down for good.

"TV?" he asked sluggishly as Wilson disposed of the syringe and curled back up in the chair.

Wilson complied, rubbing his eyes, flipping aimlessly around until he hit a Beavis and Butthead rerun and House said, "Stop."

House turned to his left to face Wilson. "Remind you of anyone?" he asked, feeling stupid with the drug.

"I was thinking more 'Waiting for Godot,'" Wilson said, "but if you want to go low-brow, be my guest."

They watched the cartoon for a little while until House propped himself up partways with his left elbow, ignoring the pain and the drugged feeling. "So are you Beavis or am I?" he slurred.

"Well, you _are_ a butt-head, so I guess that makes me Beavis," Wilson said sleepily. "Is that good or bad? I think I was stoned the only time I ever watched this show."

"You? Stoned? Surely not," House said, grinning. "But you can be Beavis. Butthead's the cool one." He lay back again, looking comfortable.

Wilson just laughed and shook his head. He was glad House was feeling better. That, he was sure of. Everything else about the night, he didn't know. He needed to process the night's events, to figure out what had happened, but he was too sleepy right now.

He looked over. Should be right about now... Yep, House had his eyes closed and was breathing steadily. Wilson watched him for a little while, trying to determine whether he was really asleep. He looked absolutely horrible. And yet... And yet he was, as he said, cleaner than he'd been in years. But what would happen when Friday came and he went back on the Vicodin? More of the same? He felt sleep tug at him. He tucked the question away and cut the TV volume. When House didn't respond, he closed his eyes too and fell asleep quickly.


	12. Day Four: Don't Feed the Bears

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Day Four: Don't Feed the Bears**

_And the television's on.  
Go to the grocery store, buy some new friends  
And find out the beginning, the end, and the best of it  
Well, do you need a lot of what you got to survive?_

_Here's the man with teeth like God's shoeshine  
He sparkles, shimmers, shines.  
Let's all have another Orange Julius  
Thick syrup standing in lines.  
The malls are the soon-to-be ghost towns  
Well so long, farewell, goodbye._

_Take 'em all for the long ride.  
And you'll go round town, no one should be uptight anymore.  
You could be ashamed to be so proud of what you've done_

_But not no one, not now, not ever anyone.  
Take 'em all for that sense of happiness  
That comes from hurting deep down inside._

_Or you could add it up and give a shit, give a shit.  
Go to the family doctor, it's all worth it, all worth it.  
It's all all wrong and it's all all gone._

_And the telephone goes off.  
Pick the receiver up, try to meet ends,  
And find out the beginning, the end, and the best of it._

—Modest Mouse, "Teeth Like God's Shoeshine"

The clatter of the shift change in the hallway woke Wilson. His neck was stiff from sleeping in the chair and he was still sleepy. _I've got the day off_, he thought absently, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked over at House. Still sleeping, looking comfortable. _Might as well try to go back to sleep_. He shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that didn't make his neck hurt. He closed his eyes and pulled the blanket back up.

As a rule, he didn't take days off unless he was sick enough that he might pass it on to his patients. He didn't have to be too sick for that to happen since most of them were immuno-compromised from chemo or surgery, but he didn't get sick very often either, so he didn't take many days off. He hadn't taken a vacation in a while either. The last one had been a last ditch effort to salvage his marriage, skiing in Colorado. The sex had been great, but they didn't actually fix anything.

No, wait, the last trip he'd taken had been with House to the Yankees/Sox playoffs. Yeah, that was right.

They'd met up in a Sox-friendly pub to watch the first three games. The Sox came back to win Game Four and they and most of the other patrons toasted the victory until the bartender kicked them all out at closing time. He didn't remember where they'd gone after that but they'd eventually ended up at House's place. He vaguely recalled waking up on the floor around noon to find House gone. By the time he'd picked himself up and thoroughly cursed House for not having any over the counter pain killers in his medicine cabinet, House came bursting in the door, grinning his head off.

"What're you so happy about?" Wilson asked tiredly.

"Yankees lost," House said, practically bouncing off the walls. "Isn't that a good enough reason to be happy?"

"Not that happy, not after last night," Wilson said, rubbing his head. He made a mental note to stock House's apartment with the biggest bottle of aspirin he could find the second he was coherent enough to drive.

"Then how about this?" House said, producing an envelope and offering to Wilson, rocking back and forth with excitement.

Wilson looked at the proffered envelope stupidly until his brain clicked on.

"You got tickets?" he said gleefully, eyes lighting up, reaching for the envelope. He'd completely forgotten about his hangover.

"No," House said sarcastically, snatching the envelope back, "I got you a commemorative t-shirt." He rolled his eyes. "What does it look like I got?"

Wilson got up and grabbed the envelope, opening it and marveling at the tickets. "All right!" he said.

"Yeah," House said, settling into a chair. "They better not lose. Cost me a kidney, my _good _kidney."

"They're on the first base line," Wilson said, dancing with joy. "Small price to pay."

"Hey, you're not the guy missing a kidney here," House said. "It's really going to cut into my social life."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "What social life?"

House threw him a murderous look. "Y'know," he said, "I can probably catch up with that guy and get my kidney back. Gimme those." He yanked at the tickets.

"Whatever," Wilson said, holding the tickets close to his chest. "You don't have a receipt. That'd guy'd never trade you back."

"How do you know that?" House said. "Maybe he's a reputable black market dealer. Keeps correct records and everything. Has a tax shelter in the Caribbean even, the works."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure he's really concerned with record-keeping," Wilson said, laughing.

House stretched and stood up. "I'm calling Cuddy and taking tomorrow off," he said. "I suggest you do the same, cause you're driving."

"Fine with me," Wilson said, suddenly very happy he had all that vacation time saved up.

They'd both ended up taking the whole week off. The Sox kept winning and House kept coming up with tickets for the next game. Wilson wasn't sure how, but he knew a small fortune was involved. They lived on beer and hot dogs and nearly missed the start of Game Six because they left Boston a little late and had to fight traffic and mobs of fans getting into New York. House nearly got into four separate fights during the two games at Yankee Stadium. Each time, Wilson had stepped in just in time to keep his friend from getting beaten into a bloody pulp by drunk, pissed off Yankees fans. Bad place to bring a guy with a smart mouth and no tolerance for idiots, especially when those idiots were Yankees fans. But he had a feeling that House could still handle himself in a fight as long as he had his cane. He didn't, however, want to find out.

Thinking back on it, it was the most fun he'd had in a long time. And it was the last time he'd seen House really happy. When David Ortiz hit that home run in Game Five after fourteen innings... He didn't remember much about the rest of that night, but he'd always remember that it seemed like the first time House had forgotten his handicap entirely. They hadn't stopped rambling on about that game like little children for days afterward.

What had happened between now and then that had changed that so much? Maybe that had just been an exception to what had become the rule. Maybe it was that Cuddy had finally gotten him to make up his clinic hours. And maybe it was just that the days had gotten harder for him than he let on.

Wilson had taken him to a strip club around his birthday and paid in advance for a private session but that had been months ago. He didn't think House had seen anyone since then. He realized that he'd be pretty down too if he were wasting the best years he was ever going to have, sexually speaking, too.

But it wasn't just sex.

Okay, a lot of it was, but there was also the feeling of waking up alone every morning—something he couldn't stand himself. That was why he stayed married. Since the break up with Stacy, House hadn't seen anyone seriously. He'd been so happy with her. Wilson remembered how House had come to him for advice on how to pop the question, how excited he was, how nervous, how hopeful. He waited and waited for them to set a date but they never did. He never got the full story about what happened.

Not long after that, he remembered the panicked drive to House's apartment that night, the hours afterward dealing with ER docs and specialists, House drifting in and out of consciousness, drugged to the eyeballs and still in pain, waiting on test results, worrying like hell that House would throw another clot, alternately staring at the floor and pacing while House was in surgery, calling House's parents and not knowing what to say despite his years of experience with the parents of his patients. Because House wasn't his patient. He was his friend. Yeah, Wilson had other friends, but none were as close as House was. Or as interesting. Or as annoying. Not nearly.

Was that why he did it, then? Was that why he put up with him? Was that why he got so worried, so angry, like he had last night? Because House was his best friend or because he was House's only friend? Most of the time it was the former more than anything else; only sometimes was it the latter. It was never one or the other—always some mix of the two. And now? What about now?

He didn't know. It had, however, become abundantly clear to him that he was not going to get back to sleep. And since he didn't normally take days off, he'd go check into the office and see some patients or get caught up on paperwork. Unlike some people he could think of, he liked his department to run smoothly.

He stood up and stretched, then grabbed his lab coat and sat back down to put his shoes on. House didn't move through all this. He went and got a new bag of fluids and hung it, throwing the empty bag out. He stretched again and decided he'd better leave House a note to page him when he woke up.

"House," he said, forcing himself not to whisper in the silence of the room. "You awake?"

No response.

He checked his pulse. Strong and steady. Good.

He put the note on top of the blanket covering his friend and left, yawning.

* * *

Wilson came back a few hours later. All of his patients were doing as well as could be expected. One had had a bad night but was doing better now. He gathered up some paperwork and took it back to House's room along with a pair of scrubs.

House was just as he'd left him, note in the same place and everything. He discarded it and sat to work on some charts.

He was in the middle of his third chart when there was a crash outside and House started stirring. Wilson watched him shift around and mutter something before settling back into sleep. He went back to his charts.

Around eleven there was another crash outside. What was it with this floor? He heard House stir again but didn't look up from his charts. Let him orient himself if he was awake.

After a few minutes he looked over at House. Eyes still closed, but he could tell House was awake. Luckily, he was at the end of another bag of saline, so Wilson set his charts aside, got up and went to get another one.

House heard him leave. He rubbed his face with his right hand and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the wall, still half-asleep.

He was still staring at the wall when Wilson came back. He woke up a little more at the sound of the door opening and looked over.

"Hey," Wilson said. "How you doing?"

House yawned. "Not bad," he said. He felt relaxed, kind of good, still a little drugged. Thank God for Valium. "Could use some coffee," he said. "Gotta pee."

"Good," Wilson said, hanging the new bag.

"What time is it?" House asked, yawning again.

"You've got a watch on," Wilson said smiling.

"Hey, go easy on the cripple," House said. "You're the one who slipped me the mickey last night, if you recall."

"You're welcome," Wilson said, sitting down and taking up his charts again.

"Yeah, thanks," House muttered, yawning again. He looked at his watch. Geez, it was later than he thought. Kid must be okay or they'd have gotten him up. Ha! He was so right. He knew he'd been right, but now he was absolutely sure he was right.

Hold on, wait a second..._would_ they have gotten him up? He recalled last night, Wilson waking him up for the cat. But didn't he tell Tweedledee and Tweedledum to page him? Yeah, he did. Must have slept through the page. If Wilson had to wake him up then, he could've missed another page. Shit, shit, shit. Now he had to ask. He hated having to ask. It compromised the appearance of omniscience he so enjoyed.

"How's the kid doing?" he asked sleepily.

"It's a little early to tell," Wilson said, not looking up from his notes, "but he's stable, not getting any worse."

"Yeah," House said to himself. Good. But he'd been out of it for a long time. Anything could have happened. Oh God. Anyone could have been in to see him too. _Anyone_. But Wilson wouldn't let them right? cause he knew he'd kill him slowly and painfully if he did, right? He knew that, didn't he?

"I can go check on him if you want," Wilson volunteered, still intent on his charts.

"Nah," House said, "they'd page me if anything was wrong." Wouldn't they? He hated it when things like this were out of his control.

He sighed inwardly and relaxed again. Nothing he could do about it.

11:30. A little over twenty-four hours to go and he'd be a free man. Nice.

He was just about to bug Wilson for the remote when he remembered he had to pee. Huh. Weird thing to forget. He pushed himself up on his elbows, thinking he could make it on his own. The movement made his head spin and he dropped back onto the mattress; he was definitely still a little drugged. Or just screwed up in general.

Wilson looked at him curiously.

"I gotta pee," House said, annoyed at himself. "You gonna help me up or what?" Couldn't even sit up. Pa-freakin-thetic.

"Yeah," Wilson said, setting the charts aside and getting to his feet.

He locked the IV and pulled the tube out, then went around to House's right side and helped him sit up, feeling his ribs and the line of his spine through both of his shirts. House's back felt like that of an emaciated chemo patient. He shuddered inwardly. A hot dog eating contest was definitely in order. Several hot dog eating contests.

House gasped as the action of sitting up made his right leg bend slightly. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, he knew, and silently thanked heaven for Valium again, but it still hurt quite a bit. It was mostly his damaged nerves; his muscles weren't much of a bother at the moment. What hurt most, though, was his hip where he'd hit the wall. He wondered idly how large the bruise was. Come to think of it, his mouth hurt pretty bad too. His hand as well. So they were all coming back again, his old friends, to play. Wonderful. And he still had to pee. And Wilson was staring at him with a concerned look on his face. Damn. He'd taken too long.

He looked at Wilson and rolled his eyes, preparing himself to move his leg to the floor and get up. He pushed the covers back and hissed when he had to hold himself up with his left hand while he moved his right leg with his other hand. He thought he'd prepared himself for it. He hadn't.

Next thing he knew Wilson was holding him up again and moving his other leg to the floor so he could sit next to him on the bed.

House couldn't stop himself from leaning on Wilson, shaking like a leaf and fighting dizziness and nausea again. He felt unbelievably pathetic. It made him angry, this physical limitation, and he really wanted to punch something.

Wilson was alarmed at how sharp House's bones felt through his clothes as House leaned into him. The physical toll the past few days had taken on his friend made him kick himself hard. House had more than proven his point now, but Wilson knew that he wouldn't give in to Cuddy until a full week had passed, not this late in the game, not after he'd gone through the worst of the withdrawal and all he had to do was ride the pain out until tomorrow. What he hadn't foreseen was that the pain would be this bad. To break your hand over it...

"House," he said.

"What?" He could feel House's voice ring in his chest with his hand and against his shoulder when House spoke. House had never been the touchy-feely type. He and House didn't touch much in general. It was kind of nice being able to hold him right now, keep him together. It made him feel less rotten about what he'd done.

"I think I should admit you," he said as steadily as possible. He was more shaken up by this than he wanted to let on.

"No," House groaned. Wilson felt the hum of his voice against his shoulder again.

"You're in bad shape," he said, again trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

"I'm fine," House said, still leaning against him. Wilson could feel him sweating, his body trying to cool itself down after the exertion of sitting up. Shit, that was bad. Really bad.

"No, you're not," he said flatly.

"Yes, I am," House growled, trying to extricate himself from Wilson. He gripped the bed with his right hand and pulled himself away, biting back a groan as he did. "I just need my damn pills," he said tiredly.

"You need to keep some food down," Wilson said, a little sorry that House had broken contact. Now he felt thoroughly rotten again.

"For which I need my pills," House said. "Weren't you listening last night? There's no mysterious underlying cause here, I just need my meds." He felt himself starting to sway again. "Can we talk about this later? I really gotta pee."

"Lie back down, then," Wilson said. "I'll get you a-"

"No way," House growled, "no fucking way. Help me up."

He didn't wait for Wilson to get to his feet first this time. Instead, he planted his left foot and right hand and pushed himself up. Wilson caught him before he could fall back and he cursed under his breath at his weakness.

Wilson helped him to the toilet and cracked the door again. House grumbled to himself about nosy friends not respecting his right to pee unassisted and turned the sink on before he unzipped his fly.

He washed his hands and was splashing water on his face when he saw Wilson in the mirror with scrubs in his hand.

"I'm not staying here," House said as he dried his face.

"Of course you're not," Wilson said automatically, still holding the scrubs out.

"I mean it," House said, leaning against the sink and wishing the room was big enough for him to get past Wilson.

"Well, what else are you gonna do?" Wilson said. "Keith's labs look good, his liver seems to be healing. Case closed. Would you really rather sit around your office till you collapse again?"

"I did not collapse," House muttered, leaning heavier on the sink.

"Of course you didn't," Wilson said calmly.

"I did not," House said, glaring at Wilson and punctuating his words. "I was fine. I _am_ fine."

Wilson rolled his eyes but said nothing, still holding the scrubs out.

"And anyway, I don't want to go back to my office," House said. "I want to go home and watch TV until it's tomorrow."

"Whatever you do, take the scrubs and change first," Wilson said. "You smell like a dead cat."

"Nice," House muttered and took the scrubs.

Wilson cracked the door again and House sat carefully on the toilet and began unbuttoning his shirt. He sniffed the fabric and his stomach rolled in response. Wilson was right, he did smell like a dead cat.

Getting into the scrub top was easy and only moderately painful. The jeans, however, were going to be more of a problem, especially with only one hand. He bent down to untie his shoes first, grunting with the effort. His leg sent pulses of pain to his brain and his stomach responded. He tried not to groan, swallowing.

"Need any help in there?" Wilson's voice cut through the bathroom door.

House snorted. "If you're so eager to jump my bones, Wilson, just come out and say it." He sounded tired and sick even to himself. He didn't know if getting his pants off would be worth the effort, but he'd bought himself some time to think about it with that crack. Wilson could be very easy sometimes.

He finally decided that Wilson would probably come in and help him take off his pants if he didn't at least try it himself first. He used the sink to pull himself up and winced as his left hand came into contact with his jeans. He pushed them down quickly and lowered himself onto the toilet seat again, sweating and breathing hard. Of all the small things he couldn't do without extra effort and pain, this was perhaps the one he hated the most.

He gritted his teeth and pulled his right leg out of the jeans, feeling pain mainline to his brain again. Pathetic, pathetic. He cursed to himself and sat still for a while, holding his head with his right hand and letting dizziness and pain wash over him, unable to do anything but ride it out. He needed to lie down again before he fell. Dammit, he absolutely hated it when Wilson was right.

Pants first, though. He kicked the pants off with his left leg and unfolded the scrub pants, pulling them quickly up his left leg and lifting his right foot to slide the pants under it before the pain could knock him over again. He got the pants up past his knees before it hit him with full force. Then all he could do was breathe through it.

He stood carefully when the worst of it had passed and succeeded in getting the pants tied before his left hand collided with his right hand in his haste and he saw stars, gripping the sink to keep himself upright. His stomach heaved and he was vomiting again before he knew it, painfully, into the sink. Perfect.

Outside, Wilson heard him and felt a little sick himself, his stomach turning in sympathy. He heard it stop and heard House panting, then water running. He waited a moment for House to clean himself up before he stepped in. House was sitting on the toilet dressed in the scrubs, head in his right hand, left arm wrapped around his stomach, still panting when he walked in.

"I'm gonna get you some Neurontin," he said softly.

House didn't look up, say anything, or do anything else to acknowledge his presence. Wilson waited.

House swallowed, trying to get his breathing under control. "If Valium doesn't count," he said slowly and shakily, "and Neurontin doesn't count, why not just give me my pills back and let me get on with my life?" He swallowed again and took a deep breath. "Why are you making the rules here anyway? I thought this was Cuddy's monster of a brainchild."

Wilson shrugged, trying not to look guilty. He was sure House would never find out this had been his idea. He could really blow it now if he didn't act natural. He held his breath, hoping he looked normal until House started talking again. Fortunately, House was too busy trying to breathe to notice him.

"Anyway," House said, "I don't want any Neurontin. Stuff makes me all fuzzy. If I can't think, I'd rather be dead. Just...bring me some Ibuprofen or something."

"Not on an empty stomach," Wilson said.

"Your concern is touching," House said dismissively, "but worthless."

Wilson stared at him until he looked up.

"Okay," he said, rolling his eyes, "fine, I'll eat something with it." He looked over at Wilson. "But no more jello. Get something I can actually chew, something with a taste to it. Something that tastes better on the way up. Now there's a challenge."

"I'll do my best," Wilson said and crossed the small room to help House up again.

Wilson went to his right side again and pulled him up, his hip brushing against House's. House sucked in a breath and shut his eyes.

"What is it?" Wilson asked.

"Nothing," House gasped, "go."

It seemed to Wilson that he had to take on even more of House's weight this time. He didn't dwell on that thought, concentrating instead on getting House settled on the bed as quickly and painlessly as possible. He watched House being more careful than usual about his right side.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he reconnected the drip.

"Nothing," House whispered, his head back and his eyes closed, breathing hard.

"Quit lying," Wilson said.

"I'm not lying," House countered. "I got thrown into a wall yesterday...or earlier today, or whatever, by a big angry guy. Tends to leave a few bruises."

Wilson looked at him doubtfully.

House rolled his eyes. "It's just a bruise, that's all. Let it go."

"I'll look at it when I get back," Wilson said, standing to leave.

"So you _are_ trying to get into my pants," House mumbled.

Wilson smiled. As long as House could make a joke, he was relatively okay. "Yes," he said on the way out, "that's _exactly_ what I've been trying to do all these years. Took you a while to figure it out."

"Julie's gonna be so disappointed in you," House said just loud enough for Wilson to hear him, smiling also. He didn't like it when Wilson was so serious. He was glad he'd gotten the man to lighten up a bit. He was fine, really, it was just that he was in so much pain that he couldn't function at all. It wasn't a hard thing to fix, but it was a shitty thing to have to endure…

And why endure it? Why? What for? Freedom from the clinic was starting to seem like a small reward for five days of pure hell. Showing up Cuddy, though, that was going to be sweet. And he was so close to the end...to quit now... He wouldn't, of course. He was far too stubborn and prideful for that. Twenty-four more hours, more or less. All he was good for right now was watching TV but he was a champion TV watcher.

His left hand throbbed with his heart. He lifted it and slammed it on the mattress in frustration. It worked. He wasn't frustrated any more. Instead he bit back a yelp and felt dizzy with the pain.

It was kind of cool, kind of fun, like lying on the ground as a kid and watching the sky spin and laughing after too many turns on the merry-go-round, how it made you feel sick but you really didn't care and you'd do it again as soon as you could stand. Better than being frustrated and unhappy, anyway. The room stopped rotating and he could breath normally again, so he slammed his hand down again.

It wasn't as fun the second time. He laughed a little anyway, though, quietly and to himself, at how his body reacted so vehemently to something so small. God, he was fucked up. That thought was funny too and he laughed again. So it had finally happened, he mused. He'd finally lost it.

That didn't, however, make Foreman right. It just made him...something other than right. Wrong. Yeah. Wrong. Defying logic was fun too. So this whole week had been fun, then? It had certainly run counter to logic, but so did that statement. The week, though. It hadn't been his fault. It was really the pharmacy's fault for misplacing his Vicodin on Monday and making him yell at Cuddy like that. Monday. Seemed like Monday was years ago.

He slammed his hand down again. It wasn't working as well. He wasn't getting as dizzy as he had been and dizziness was more angry than it was fun now. He was getting more nauseous instead and when was nausea ever fun? Only when he was drunk, he guessed, cause everything was fun when he was drunk. A drink would be kinda nice right now actually...

He gave up trying to formulate a plan to procure some alcohol pretty quickly. His brain refused to work. He started toying idly with the IV line instead. Wilson returned before he could pinch it shut to see what would happen.

"Keith's doing much better," he said, putting two styrofoam boxes on the table next to the bed.

"Who?" House asked.

Wilson stared at him as he opened a pre-packaged syringe. "Keith," he repeated.

House's brain sputtered and kicked on again. "Oh," he said. "Good."

Then he had a thought. Wilson must have been talking to his minions. Which...meant...what...? Damn. He'd have to ask again. "The Stooges don't know about this, do they?"

"The Stooges?" Wilson asked, tearing open an alcohol pad. "They're dead, why would they know about this?"

"Not them," House said impatiently, "the other Stooges."

Realization dawned on Wilson. "Oh," he said, "the _Stooges_. No. They think you went home. Can't you pick one name for them and avoid the confusion?"

"Why would I want to be so predictable?" House asked. "You're a good man," he said, smiling.

Wilson smiled back.

The line taped to his arm swung and he looked at it dumbly. His brain started working again when he saw Wilson wipe the injection port. "What've you got there?" he asked.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Wilson. It was just that he didn't trust Wilson to give him drugs, since Wilson was usually trying to take his drugs away. The sudden reversal made him wary. Could be anything in that syringe. How did he know Wilson wasn't trying to knock him off and take the…eh…take…eh…something…something… Yeah, he was fucked up.

"Benadryl," Wilson said, uncapping the syringe.

"You're going in reverse alphabetical order?" House asked. "Skipped a bunch if you are." He stole a glance at the dosage. "Twenty-five," he said.

Wilson shook his head. "Fifty."

"No way," House said. "I don't wanna miss General Hospital again. Today's episode is gonna be too juicy. Twenty-five."

Wilson sighed in frustration. What was so hard about letting someone help you a little when you were too messed up to help yourself? "Fine," he said, "twenty-five. For now."

"Damn right," House said. "You bring the IB?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, stopping halfway through the dose and recapping the syringe. He put it in his pocket and sat down with a sigh. He could use a nap.

House watched him. "Well?" he said.

"Give the Benadryl a second," Wilson said, leaning back in the chair and stretching.

"Come on," House whined, "my leg hurts."

"Your leg always hurts," Wilson said.

"Good of you to finally notice," House said dryly. "Which is why I pay pharmaceutical companies out the ass to make it not hurt and ask for things like, I don't know, say, pain meds? and then, uh, gee, what's the phrase, expect them to arrive?"

"Okay," Wilson said, "fine." He opened one of the boxes and handed House a bottle of milk.

House examined it, turning it over with his good hand. "This is the funniest looking IB caplet I've ever seen," he said. "How's it work?"

Wilson sighed. He was a little too sleepy to want to play games right now. He realized that he hadn't opened the bottle and took it back.

"Give the Benadryl a chance to work and drink half of this first," he said, handing the open bottle back to House.

"Oh come _on_," House said. "Give me the damn pills."

"What're you gonna do if I don't?" Wilson said, crossing his arms.

Wilson had him. "Damn you," he said softly.

Wilson sat down and put his head in his hands. He didn't like any of this.

House, too, looked away. He felt the Benadryl settling his stomach and making him a little sleepy. He toyed with the plastic ring around the mouth of the milk bottle and started reading the label. 100 percent Whole Milk. _Couldn't spring for skim, could he_, House thought.

Then another thought struck him and he glanced at his right forearm. Skinnier than he remembered. Dammit. _He_ didn't notice these things, so why should other people? It wasn't their business. Why should Wilson deliver him sympathy in a bottle of milk? _I'm fine_, House thought and then sighed inwardly. He knew he wasn't fine. But he didn't want anyone else to know. What was so wrong with wanting that, living with a little dignity?

He sighed again and took a drink of the milk, feeling it roll cool down his esophagus and into his stomach. It was nice. He took another drink.

"Not too fast," Wilson said.

House jumped. He'd been so wrapped up in himself that he'd forgotten Wilson was still there. He looked over to roll his eyes and saw a plate of curly fries and a hamburger. His mouth filled with saliva.

"You got me curly fries?" he said. "You're the best."

"No," Wilson said, munching on a fry, "I got _me_ curly fries. Drink your milk."

House sniffed. "Didn't your mother teach ever you to share?" he said.

"She did," Wilson said. "But she also taught me not to feed the bears."

"What bears?" House said, "You're from _Connecticut_."

"Metaphorically speaking," Wilson said, picking up another fry. "And I'm not from Connecticut."

"Whatever," House said.

Then, conspiratorially, "Hey Jimmy, trade you my milk for a handful of your fries."

"Not happening," Wilson said, trying not to grin.

"You suck," House said.

"You blow," Wilson replied.

They grinned to themselves, schoolboys.

"Can I have the pain meds now?" House asked after a while.

"Four more sips first," Wilson said pedantically.

"How about one gulp?" House asked and took a gulp before Wilson could say anything.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

House smiled at him.

"Okay," Wilson said and pulled a packet out of his pocket, tearing it open.

"I only get two?" House whined.

"Yep," Wilson said, shaking them out and handing them to House.

House stared at the pills. "You _gotta_ give me some fries now." He dry-swallowed the pills.

"Okay, okay," Wilson said and held the box out, "but only a few."

House grabbed a handful.

"That's way too many," Wilson said, feigning hurt and taking the box back.

"Shut up, you've got a burger too," House replied, unwilling to concede his prize, which he placed on top of the blanket.

He ate the first one with unabashed relish. "That's good," he said around it.

"Yep," Wilson said and snatched one off the blanket.

House slapped his hand. "Stop that," he said and cupped his hand around the rest of them protectively.

He ate another one. They made his stomach hurt but they tasted so good.

"You got the remote?" he asked.

"Yeah," Wilson said around a mouthful of hamburger and offered it to him.

House looked at it, right hand cupped around the fries still. "You'd like that, wouldn't you," he said, looking from his hand to the remote, "make me leave them defenseless."

Wilson shook his head and changed the channel. He landed on ESPN. "NASCAR?" he asked.

"Yeah," House said, "till one."

Wilson nodded and they watched the cars speed around the track. House ate his fries, ignoring his stomach.

"Come on," he muttered, "crash already."

"Something about forty cars going around in a circle at 200 miles per hour doesn't interest you?" Wilson said dryly.

House snorted.

He only had one fry left. He picked it up and addressed it, "I didn't pick you last cause I don't like you," he said. "I picked you last cause you're the best."

"You can't just play with your food, you have to talk to it too?" Wilson said, finishing the hamburger and setting the box aside.

House gave him a look and popped the fry victoriously into his mouth.

He settled back and watched the cars on the track. He could feel the Ibuprofen working, taking the edge off of the pain. Everything still hurt, but not quite as much. His hip, though. He rubbed it absently, not noticing that Wilson was watching him.

Wilson kicked himself. He'd forgotten all about that. He wasn't too worried—it was probably nothing—but it had hurt House enough earlier to make him respond to it and it was clearly hurting him again now, so he'd better have a look at it. House was so good at hiding things that when he let something show, it was usually something major.

House saw him cross in front of the bed, blocking the TV.

"What're you doing?" he asked stupidly when Wilson stopped and stood over his right side.

"Pull down your pants," Wilson said kneeling.

"What!" House yelled, looking appalled. "You're not _that_ starved for skin, are you?" he asked, still shocked, "Cause I'm no Julie. I'm no nurse what's-her-name either."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Relax," he said, "I just want to take a look at your bruise."

"Why?" House asked. "It's just a bruise. Thoroughly boring, I assure you. Unless you get your kicks out of looking at bruises that appear on your colleagues. I think there are support groups for that."

Wilson crossed his arms and stared at him, not going anywhere.

"Look," House said, "I just had my meds, I feel a little less like crap now, and if I have to fiddle with my pants, that's going to go away."

Wilson didn't say anything.

House looked at the blanket. "Dammit, Wilson, don't make me do this," he said softly.

Wilson looked away for a moment.

"House—" he said.

"Christ," House cut him off, "it's just a bruise! Let it go!"

Wilson looked back at him. "You don't know that. It obviously hurts."

"No, it doesn't," House said. "It's fine."

Wilson's mouth formed the tight, tiny line that meant he was pissed. He didn't say anything else, pulling back the blanket instead. He would've reached for the strings of House's pants if House hadn't grabbed his hand and flung it away.

"Goddamn it," House grumbled and started untying his pants one-handedly. The jerky motion of pushing Wilson away set off his stomach and he swallowed. He'd known this would happen and cursed Wilson again.

Wilson had the decency to look away while House worked on his pants. This was necessary. He knew House too well.

House had the pants untied and was trying to lean to his left so he could get his boxers down without exposing himself too much and without using his left hand or right leg. It was impossible. He gave up after a while and let Wilson do it, awkwardly shifting his weight as Wilson pulled his boxers down and cursing when they brushed against the bruise. He looked away.

Wilson was gentle but clinical. It was an ugly bruise, bigger than Wilson had expected. House grunted as Wilson examined it and answered his questions tightly, still looking away. He felt thoroughly degraded and humiliated by this. It was worse than showering after gym in high school.

"You're fine," Wilson said after more poking and prodding than House would've liked.

"Told you," House muttered testily.

Wilson tried not to stare at the lack of flesh on House's hip, the sharp curve of his pelvis. He quickly pulled up House's boxers and pants, not tying them.

"Go ahead," House said distantly, still looking at the wall to his left, "I can't get them."

Wilson blushed, angry at the situation and embarrassed for House. He tied them quickly, trying not to notice House's sunken stomach and not to touch him too much. He pulled up the blanket and went around the bed to sit down again, looking at the floor as he went.

House turned his head to his right and looked at that wall now. He wished he were anywhere but here.

His stomach started churning angrily. He put his hand on it and swallowed. Maybe the fries had been a bad idea. He closed his eyes and swallowed again, trying not to groan.

"I'll take that other twenty-five now," he said quietly. Forget General Hospital. He wasn't in the mood.

He heard Wilson get to his feet and then the rip of a sterile package. He hoped the drug would work quickly, either make the nausea stop or knock him out. Preferably both, but he'd take the latter if it was all he could get. He swallowed again.

He saw Wilson dispose of the syringe and head for the door out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't meant... Dammit.

"Wait," he said, looking at Wilson for the first time in ten minutes. "It's okay. I mean, you don't have to go." He sighed. This was hard. "I'm just...really fucked up. I didn't mean it."

Wilson didn't look at him. He needed to go collect himself. House didn't realize what this was costing him and he didn't want him realizing it. He needed to be alone for a little while.

He went over to the table and got the emesis basin, putting it on the bed next to House's left arm. "In case you need it," he said, going to the door. "I'll be back soon," he said and was gone.

House looked from the pink kidney-shaped bowl to the door, slightly bewildered. He didn't understand what had just happened. He wasn't sure he wanted to either.

He sighed as the medicine kicked in, settling his stomach and making him feel woozy. He closed his eyes and drifted.

He was still drifting when Wilson came back in. Couldn't have been more than a few minutes. He heard him sit and sigh.

He fought hard to open his eyes. The Benadryl had done a number on him. He looked over at Wilson, nearly asleep, and saw him holding his head in his hands.

"You okay?" he asked hoarsely.

Wilson's head snapped up. He'd thought House was asleep. Looking at him, he saw that he nearly was asleep, his eyelids drooping, eyes dull and drugged.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "General Hospital's on. Wanna watch?"

"Nah," House said, closing his eyes, "sleepy."

"Yeah," Wilson said and turned off the lamp. He stood and took off his lab coat and then his shoes. He curled up in the chair again with the blanket and watched House, sleepy himself.

Five minutes later he turned the TV off and fell asleep too.


	13. Day Four: Going Home

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

A/N at the end.

* * *

**Day Four: Going Home**

When House woke again he was alone and the room was dim with the last light of day. He had only one thing on his mind: he was getting out of here.

He felt better—just well enough that he wouldn't tolerate being cooped up in a hospital room one second longer. And he'd seen enough of Wilson to last him a lifetime. He wasn't sure what had happened earlier in the afternoon and he didn't want to dwell on it to find it. He was going home. Now.

First thing, get unplugged. He pulled the tape off and slid the cannula out, letting it fall to the floor. Blood got on the sheets before he could staunch the flow with his scrub top. As he applied pressure, he glanced around the room trying to find his cane. There it was, in the corner behind the chair on his left. Perhaps the least accessible place in the whole room if you didn't count the air ducts. _Damn him_.

He sighed and checked his arm. Not bleeding much anymore. He pulled himself up, pleased that he could actually do it this time, and threw the blanket back, planting his left foot on the floor and moving his right leg to join it before he lost his balance. He didn't wait for the movement to catch up with him, hopping a few steps, holding onto the chair with his right hand for support, and awkwardly retrieving his cane from the corner, catching himself, and then standing normally. Hmm. That was easy.

He limped quickly around the bed and into the bathroom and was in the middle of a blissful piss, happy that Wilson had tied the scrubs loosely enough that he could pull them down to pee without untying them, when physics caught up with him.

He gasped sharply and lurched forward, dizzy, urine dribbling on the floor as he grabbed the sink to stay upright, then bumped his broken fingers against his right leg as he tried awkwardly to grab himself with his left hand.

Shit. It had been going to so well.

He didn't have much time to reflect on that. His left knee started to shake under his weight, and he groaned, gritting his teeth, breathing hard, finally unable to stop himself from vomiting again, milk, fries, and bile, streaked with something reddish for that festive touch. Lovely miasma of color.

Christ, this _had_ to stop.

He flushed the toilet, panting, and stood for a while, knee shaking, most of the rest of him shaking with it. He was hanging out of his boxers and he realized vaguely that he still had to pee. Shit. Well, that wasn't going to happen right now. He flipped the toilet lid down with his thumb and forefinger, mindful of his fingers, and turned clumsily, half-hopping to sit on it. He let go of the sink and pulled his leg up by the pants' leg to rest it on the bathtub wall. He tucked himself back into his pants and leaned back against the bowl, ignoring his stomach's protests at being stretched when it wanted to contract, tipping his head back and closing his eyes against the fluorescent light, his left arm draped uselessly over his left leg, right arm wrapped around his mid-section, sweating lightly and gasping like a fish out of water. He wished he'd never been born.

Ten minutes later, after he'd gotten control of his body again and most of the shaking had stopped, he retracted that wish and turned his annoyance back where it belonged: his leg, Cuddy, Wilson, weakness, pharmacists and shipping clerks.

His cane was where he'd left it—leaning against the sink. He reached across his body to retrieve it and then slowly stood. It hurt and it made him dizzy, but he felt okay for the most part, certainly better than he had ten minutes ago. He turned around carefully and lifted the toilet lid to finish peeing.

Wilson walked in with a new bag of saline, fumbled around in the dark, and found the lamp. The first thing he saw was blood on the sheets and House gone. Adrenaline shot through his body and his insides contracted before he heard tell-tale noise from the bathroom. Oh. He could breathe again.

On the other side of the bathroom door, House heard Wilson come in and adrenaline shot through his body too. He quickly examined himself to see if his clothes revealed anything of the earlier incident and was relieved when they didn't. Amazed almost. He hadn't even gotten piss on his pants. Nice.

He washed his hands and resisted the urge to splash water on his face. He looked in the mirror. Aside from the split lip and light bruise around the corner of his mouth, he looked pretty good, all things considered. He looked steady even. Good, cause he wasn't going to let Wilson stop him from going home. He was sick of this place.

Outside, Wilson waited for him, fresh bag of saline tossed aside on the table and long forgotten now. He'd figured out pretty quickly where the blood had come from and what it signified. House was ready to go. He wasn't sure how to react to that. Part of him was pissed at House for scaring him again, part of him knew House should stay here where he could be observed, part of him knew he'd never get House to agree to that and cursed him for it, part of him just wanted to go home too and forget about all of this, but most of him felt pretty damn low about the whole thing. Wasn't he doing all he could to help House through this? Didn't that mediate his culpability? He knew that it should, that it did, but he felt guilty as shit anyway. So he sat and waited.

House appeared at the bathroom door looking...not...too...bad. Not too bad at all. Better than he'd looked in a while. _Maybe he's all right after all_, Wilson thought. He knew his body and his limits better than anyone else, right?

"You busting out?" Wilson asked.

"Yeah," House said, looking around the room. "Where're my shoes?"

"Closet," Wilson said, nodding toward it with his head.

House walked over to it, more steadily than Wilson would have thought possible, and found his shoes.

"Got any more Ibuprofen?" House asked.

Wilson nodded and tossed a packet to him.

"Thanks," he said, tearing it open with his teeth and dry-swallowing the pills. He sat down in the room's other chair and started putting his shoes on.

Wilson watched him from across the room, noting how he moved, what his face revealed. House winced as he put on the right shoe, but that was normal. Shoes would always be difficult for him. He looked okay. He certainly didn't look like a guy who'd been sick as a dog for three days straight. Maybe he'd had enough saline that he felt okay and looked okay when he really wasn't okay. But then again, he had kept greasy fries and milk down this afternoon. That would certainly make him feel better. Maybe it was the Benadryl...and maybe it was the Ibuprofen. That was more likely. He probably felt better now because he wasn't in so much pain that he couldn't see straight anymore. _Yeah, that would make sense_, he though wryly. _Dammit, he _does _need the Vicodin even if he is addicted to it. _So the whole week had been absolutely unnecessary. A week of putting his best friend through hell for nothing. Shit, shit, shit.

"Are you gonna sit there and stare at me all day or can we go?" House asked.

Wilson snapped out of it, realizing that House was standing, dirty clothes in a bag tucked under his right arm, ready to go.

He noticed the smear of blood on House's scrub top and looked over at his arm. A little dried blood. "You should get a band aid for that," he said distantly.

"What, this?" House asked, looking at his arm. "It's fine, let's go." When Wilson didn't move immediately, House gestured toward the door, "C'mon, c'mon. I'm gonna miss Friends."

"Friends went off the air last year," Wilson said absently.

"Then I'm gonna miss whatever they replaced it with," House said impatiently. "Thursday's Must See TV, remember? Let's _go_."

"Didn't they discontinue that slogan years ago?" Wilson asked, still unsure of how to act.

"Quit stalling with lame excuses and move your ass," House said impatiently.

"Okay, okay," Wilson said, slowly getting to his feet. "Let me get my stuff together," he said. "I'll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes."

"Don't be late," House said, opening the door and disappearing into the hallway.

Wilson watched the door close behind him and looked around at the room. Mechanically, he began to gather his things. He let the nurses know he was done with the room. They'd been great about it, not asking questions, not letting on anything was going on at all. He went to his office to get his coat and briefcase and then downstairs to the pharmacy.

House met him, coat on, clothes and jacket tucked under his arm, just as the pharmacist handed him what he'd asked for.

Wilson tossed him the bottle. "Just in case," he said.

House caught it and read the label. Benadryl. Fat lot of good it'd do him. But he shifted the bag with his clothes to his left arm and put the pills in the bag anyway. He was ready to get home, have a drink, watch TV, and forget about this week. No more arguing.

The walked to the car and rode in silence. Wilson still wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing and House was trying to keep his composure and ignore his burning stomach until he could get rid of Wilson.

As they turned onto House's street, Wilson broke the silence.

"What've you got to eat?" he asked.

"I've got some stuff in the freezer," House said. Wilson looked at him dubiously. "Nutritionally sound, I assure you," House said.

"Let me come up," Wilson said. "We'll order a pizza. Anchovies, extra cheese, sausage."

"Ugh, what're you trying to do, kill me?" House said, making a face. "Besides, you're Jewish."

"I can't pick them off?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged. "I'd rather not," he said.

"What about your hand?" Wilson said.

"What about it?" House repeated. "If I can gimp around for years with one good leg and manage not to kill myself, I'll be fine with one good hand for a night."

Wilson didn't say anything. House saw his jaw clench.

"Look," House said before Wilson could say anything else, "it's been a hellish couple of days. I just want to go upstairs and unwind a little by myself."

Wilson looked away, which House interpreted as a yes. He opened the door and got out of the car as quickly as he could, fumbling with his clothes.

Wilson still looked unsettled.

"Go home," House said before Wilson could protest again. "Your dog misses you."

Wilson's jaw clenched even tighter. "Call me," he said, "if anything, _anything_-"

"Yes, mother, I will," House said and closed the car door.

Wilson watched him hobble into his building. He sat in the car gazing distantly at the building's door for several minutes before a car honked behind him and he realized he was still in the middle of the street. He hit the gas pedal and drove home automatically.

Julie's car wasn't in the garage when he arrived. He unlocked the door and went immediately to the backyard to let Charlie in. The dog barked and jumped on him, trying to lick his face. So he _had_ missed him. Big surprise, of course, he _was _a dog. He went into the living room, sat down on the couch, turned the TV on and let Charlie lick his face as he tried to figure out what had just happened with his other best friend.

* * *

**A/N:** A short transition scene, not much to it, I know. The next chapter will have more meat in it. :) Also, I'm on spring break now and I've got the rest of this story outlined, so I'm expecting things to move pretty fast (provided I don't hit a wall of course).

As always, thanks to everyone who's reviewed. I really appreciate it! I'd like to respond to a few specific things now:

ManniElf18 – Curly fries are magnificent!

Skye – Glad you liked the banter, particularly the 'bears' part cause I nearly changed it at the last second to something that wouldn't have been as funny. As to your earlier comment, I'm glad the friendship-and-nothing-else thing between House and Wilson is going over well. I like slash myself but don't see it in the show and I'm trying to stick as closely as I can to canon with this fic, so House and Wilson are and will remain friends with innuendos here. I kind of like their friendship better than I do a relationship between them—they're such good friends that it'd be a shame to compromise that. 'Course, their friendship is kinda being compromised right now without sex entering into it, so, eh…not sure where I was going with this. In any case, glad you're liking it!

Ilios – Yep, House is a rather screwed up individual, poor fella. Can't be fixed by a few kisses. I'm not averse to a few kisses for him and like the lighter ship fics, but this certainly isn't one of those (nor will it ever become one). I'm glad the portrayal of him as an utter trainwreck is working well. Thanks for your comments. :)

bree1387 – Thanks! I've been reading h/c for years myself and I know I've departed from some of the conventions in this story, so I'm glad it's up to snuff for someone who's read a good deal of h/c too. I'm also glad the Wilson angst is working. This chapter is a more focused on him than usual; I don't plan to make that a habit—the House angst is where it's at in my opinion—but I guess it fits here, so here it is. And House's 'mental deterioration'—I think he's about fourteen years old deep down inside (as are most men) & that's gotta come out sometime, eh? ;) My favorite manifestation of it so far, aside from the monster truck rally, was the line 'this is the coolest day of my life' and the baseball card thing from "Sports Medicine." Cute ep, that was, if you subtract Wilson's slimeballiness. Besides, the schoolyard banter counterbalances the dark stuff so well, I just gotta have it in there. :)

Mainer – Nah, no one came in. House was just being paranoid. I'm not great with plot, as you can tell, so there's no twist ahead. There is something and I guess it thickens things, but it's not a twist per se. Something, though—that's _something_, eh? ;)

If anyone else has had trouble getting the chapters to load, please let me know. kind of slow getting a new chapter posted cause it's such a busy site (I guess), so if there's no new chapter when the story summary says there should be one, try going to the last chapter posted and see if it'll show you the new chapter then. That's worked for me often. Otherwise…umm, let me know.


	14. Night Three: Cartoon Physics

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** Most of House's part of this update is lifted directly from Auditrix's wonderful blog. I've got House remembering very little from the early part of his infarction; she's got him remembering EVERYTHING. So, if you like this fic, especially the balance between h/c and humor/snark and House's interactions with Wilson, you'll LOVE the blog. Didja ever wonder what House's blog would read like if he wrote a blog? Well, you're in for a treat cause this is it. So set aside a few hours and get thee to the blog already!

I strongly suggest you start from the beginning or certain things won't make sense: (http colon slash slash housemd dot blogspot dot com/2005/01/ive-been-surfing-around-and-looking-at dot html - obviously, put dots, colons and slashes in the proper place; the section from "com" to "at" can be pasted into your browser as is; I don't know _why_ ff dot net is such a punk about hyperlinks). Not to mention that the posts in themselves are all damn funny. But if you must skip ahead to the infarction part, I suggest you start here to get the whole backstory (which is quite good and you'll be sorry if you skip it): http colon slash slash housemd dot blogspot dot com/2005/01/im-slouched-in-back-row-of-auditorium dot html. If you're the utterly impatient type who must be sold on something in under two pages, start here: http colon slash slash housemd dot blogspot dot com/2005/02/stayed-up-playing-piano-well-just dot html (but you are so missing out if you do!). If you notice certain similarities between our fics, it's because I have no scruples. ;)

More notes at the end regarding the timeline of the series and some other stuff about last night's ep ("Control").

* * *

**Night Three: Cartoon Physics**

_Children under, say, _ten_, shouldn't know  
that the universe is ever-expanding,  
inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies_

_swallowed by galaxies, whole_

_solar systems collapsing, all of it  
acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning_

_the rules of cartoon animation,_

_that if a man draws a door on a rock  
only he can pass through it.  
Anyone else who tries_

_will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds  
should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,  
ships going down—earthbound, tangible_

_disasters, arenas_

_where they can be heroes. You can run  
back into a burning house, sinking ships_

_have lifeboats, the trucks will come  
with their ladders, if you jump_

_you will be saved. A child_

_places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus,  
& drives across a city of sand. She knows_

_the exact spot it will skid, at which point  
the bridge will give, who will swim to safety  
& who will be pulled under by sharks. She will learn_

_that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff  
he will not fall_

_until he notices his mistake._

—Nick Flynn, "Cartoon Physics, part 1," _Some Ether_, Graywolf Press, 2000.

House kept up a steady gait walking into his building, doing his best not to arouse Wilson's curiosity now that he'd finally gotten it to retreat. He kept it up in the elevator, swallowing against the jerk of motion, and then digging around for his keys in the bag that held his clothes, which was difficult because he had to cradle the bag with his left arm and keep his balance. He got the door open and dropped the bag as soon as he was inside. He didn't stop then, though, despite the angry shouts from his muscles and nerves begging him to get into his bed and surrender to gravity.

He wanted to do a few things first.

Change his clothes, for one. He wasn't the biggest fan of scrubs, especially when they were new and itchy like this pair was. That would be complicated, though, and probably more trouble than it was worth.

Instead, he headed for the kitchen and filled a glass with ice, noticing that his cleaning lady had come. Which meant his booze was...where?

Turned out it was where it was supposed to be for once and that was, of course, the last place he thought to check because he would never put it there. He pinned the bottle and the glass between his left arm and his body and deposited them on the coffee table, for which he had to shift all of his weight onto his left leg so he could use his right hand. This one-handed bullshit was getting old fast.

Next he hobbled into the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of Ibuprofen Wilson had bought for some reason he couldn't remember now out of his medicine cabinet. His mind wanted to follow that thought, to make sense of the afternoon, but he cut it off, growling to himself and shuttling the bottle to the coffee table.

Next, a big, fat cigar. After the week he'd had, it was just what the doctor ordered. He rummaged around his living room until he came up with one. Now he was ready to relax.

But wait. He thought for a second and then went back to the kitchen. A glass of water and a box of cereal—Captain Crunch, that would do. He liked the Crunch Berries. If it came up later, then it came up later. Right now, he wanted something in his stomach. He was starting to miss food.

He settled into his favorite chair and clicked on the TV. What to watch? He found a sitcom rerun and left that on until he could find something better. First, he was going to have a nip of Scotch and a smoke.

He lit the cigar and got it going, then took a long drag and held it in. His head started to swim as he exhaled. He closed his eyes and savored it, feeling himself relax, the act dropping away. God yes, this was exactly what he needed. A cigarette would have been even better—quicker, though not as effective in the long run. But they'd been the cause of all this nonsense... Well, he liked to think that getting slammed into a pool table had had something to do with it too. Cigarettes had taken such a beating in recent years, he didn't want to add to it, being somewhat fond of them still. And there was the whole personal responsibility thing. The cigar was good, but he certainly wouldn't mind a cigarette right now. He hadn't had one in eight years. No, nine. Had it really been that long ago?

One of the few things he remembered with some degree of clarity from that awful time between arriving in the ER and getting his head back together from all the dope they'd given him before, during, and after surgery was coming to himself in a non-descript room, leg screaming in pain and the rest of him screaming for a cigarette.

Bright lights, the haze of drugs, confusion.

"Dr. House," a nurse said smiling at him, "welcome back." She looked way to cheery. He knew right off he wouldn't be getting a smoke from her. "We were getting worried. Do you know where you are?"

_Hell_, he wanted to say, but knew that wouldn't go over too well. "Hospital," he said instead. Whoa, he sounded bad, all scratchy and warbley.

She smiled again. "That's right," she said.

She looked at something he couldn't see. "Dr. Wilson, he's awake."

Then Wilson was there, smiling, but in a brave-faced way that made House's stomach sink.

"Hey," Wilson said. "How you feeling?"

"Could use a smoke," House said. It came out as a whisper and he realized how dry his throat was.

Wilson chuckled and gave him some ice chips. "Good," he said. "Good."

The ice chips melted in his mouth and wetted his throat. He licked his lips.

"What happened?" he asked, raspy this time. An improvement?

Wilson gave him some more ice chips and then put the cup away.

"Well..." he said, "what do you remember?"

He struggled to recall the last few...hours, days? He didn't know how much time had passed. It was like being in a supermarket or a casino: no windows, no outside world, no exit.

He remembered being subjected to a variety of tests, jostled awake by the transfer from the gurney to the table and back again, but what those tests were and what the results had been... He'd gathered somewhere along the way that they'd found a blood clot in his leg, but consciousness hadn't stuck around long enough for him to do much with that idea.

"Not a whole lot," he said. "What time is it? What _day_ is it?"

Wilson chuckled again. He must have looked amusing. "Sunday," he said, "and it's about," he checked his watch, "2:30."

House stared at him stupidly until Wilson realized that that wasn't helpful.

"P.M." he added. "It's been about twelve hours since you got here. You picked a bad day to get sick."

House snorted. "If I'd known, I would've called ahead," he said.

Suddenly the pain in his leg ramped up a notch and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from screaming. Oh, so _that_ was why he had a twelve hour gap in his memory.

"You okay?" Wilson asked worriedly.

House nodded jerkily, eyes shut against the pain.

"What happened?" he managed to choke out.

"They found a blood clot in your femoral artery," Wilson said, still looking worried. "They're trying to break the clot up with thromobolytics via catheter first. Don't move, by the way, they're leaving the catheter in for a few hours at least. Do you remember any of that?"

He remembered...lights...metal...voices...pain. He shook his head.

"Not too surprising," Wilson said. "You were pretty out of it."

"Tell me about it," House muttered. "Is it working?" he asked, wondering if he dared to hope.

"Too early to tell," Wilson said. "But they're hopeful." His brow furrowed again. "How's the pain?" he asked.

"Not great," House said. He'd just gotten used to the new level of pain he was experiencing and it wasn't knocking him out, so he figured he'd like to stay awake for a little while. "But okay."

Wilson still looked worried, glancing at the door like he was about to bolt after one of the nurses.

"It's okay for now," House said reassuringly. "I've been knocked out enough for one day."

Wilson snorted.

"What did the tests say?" he asked. "I remember...lots of tests."

"The X-ray, CT, and MRI didn't show anything conclusive," Wilson said, trying to edge away from the conversation.

"What about tissue damage?" House asked.

"They're...not sure yet," Wilson said. "Gotta break up the clot first." He tried to smile.

Damn but he was terrible at concealing his emotions. House knew that look. _It's bad, it's bad, it's bad_, he thought. But then, if he was throwing clots, odds were he'd end up with one in his lungs and that would be the end of that. After the pain he'd felt today, maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing. Quick, painless. As opposed to a life without his leg. _Twelve hours_...

"Don't worry," Wilson said, brave face back on. "It's looking...good."

"You're a terrible liar," House said, trying not to show how down he was getting.

"Yeah," Wilson said softly, "I guess so."

He looked at his feet for a moment, then looked up again, face more composed.

"But they really are optimistic," he said in his best 'I'm-not-bullshitting-you' tone.

"It's been twelve hours," House said miserably. _You know what that means_, his eyes said as he looked at Wilson.

"Yes...," Wilson said slowly, "...it has. But don't worry."

"How can you—oh, God," he said, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain ramped up several more notches at once. He tried to sit up, to grab his leg. He couldn't get nearly that far. Wilson pushed him back.

"Stay still," he said, voice tight with alarm, and was at the door in an instant, yelling something down the hall.

It was all he could do to keep breathing in the long seconds it took the nurses to draw the meds and get down the hall. He was aware of a hand gripping his. He squeezed it, jaw clenched, hearing voices and feeling hands checking him over. Then the morphine hit him. He opened his eyes to see Wilson' worried face looking down at his, felt Wilson squeeze his hand again though he couldn't squeeze back now, and heard him saying something like 'hold on' as he slipped off. _Maybe this is it_, he'd thought hazily,_ maybe this is it_.

Not his favorite memory. Looking back, he was almost grateful for the pain knocking him out, keeping the burden of knowledge waiting in the wings a little while longer. That self—the one lying confused in a hospital bed, dying for a smoke, wondering if this was the end—that self had been so innocent. And all the selves before it. Couldn't have possibly known. And all because he started smoking on a dare at age fifteen? Innocent, pimply-faced fifteen-year old Gregory who resented his father and wished he knew how to talk to girls?

Not so innocent, maybe. After all, who's innocent at fifteen? But either way, it seemed that if he sat around just breathing long enough, time would kill him, so why not have a smoke? He couldn't see any reason why not, so he inhaled deeply, savoring the flavor. And he saw that it was good.

One upside to having only yourself to spend money on was that you could buy some really nice things. Some people got Ikea catalogues and went nuts and others collected pointless memorabilia from other pointless memorabilia collectors who'd fallen on hard times through the global bizarre that was eBay. They were usually gay or obsessive-compulsive; probably still living with their mothers either way.

Him? He went for pleasures of the flesh. He wasn't an epicurean in any sense—no five-hundred dollar tins of caviar for him—but if part of his flesh was going to limit everything he'd ever do for the rest of his life, why not reward the remaining flesh for being a good sport about the whole thing? Again, he couldn't think of a reason. So, bottoms up.

He drained the glass. There were more expensive bottles of booze out there than this one, certainly. Moderation—that's the key. Unless there's pain... Yep, he'd said it. Too bad she didn't listen to him.

He checked his watch: 6:58:26. Time for Wheel of Fortune. He changed the channel and did the math. Eighteen hours, seventeen minutes, thirty-four seconds and he'd be back on at least forty mills a day. The way this week had gone, he'd be up to eighty in no time. There were all those incidental injuries to consider; they were really adding up. Not his best week. His stomach was still burning, Scotch on top of the IB. Well, if it wanted to bitch, he'd give it something to bitch about.

He poured another glass and opened the Captain Crunch, wondering idly if it had exceeded its shelf-life. It was an old box—he didn't remember buying it—and the cereal inside certainly was stale. But it wasn't too bad and he really didn't care anyway. He should invest in Twinkies. With a seven year shelf-life how could he go wrong?

He laughed sadly to himself. He hadn't always been this way. Drinking alone at seven o'clock on a Thursday night, actually interested in Wheel of Fortune, speculating in the Twinkie market. Might as well be collecting pointless memorabilia or prissy European furniture.

He realized vaguely that he was wallowing. Oh well. He didn't really care. The alcohol was doing its work fast tonight; he figured he'd be asleep before Jeopardy! was over. Which meant he'd miss The OC. Damn.

He chewed another handful of cereal and took another drag on his cigar. Not the best combination of flavors and textures, but he'd take it. He exhaled the smoke.

Stacy had hated his smoking. She'd goaded him into trying to quit more times than he could remember and he always ended up sneaking cigarettes whenever he possibly could. She'd find out and they'd fight. He'd get restless, go to a bar, and chain smoke until he was sick. They'd make up, have great sex, and be back at square one.

In the beginning, he'd tried, he'd really tried to quit for her. Yes, he agreed, it was a nasty habit, very bad for him and everyone else on the planet, and yes, she recognized that it was his constitutional right to give himself cancer if he chose, but didn't he love her enough to think about her? Okay, yes, he wouldn't smoke in the apartment any longer, sure, that was reasonable. But then he came in smelling like smoke, tasting like smoke and she didn't like to kiss him when he tasted like he'd been licking an ashtray. This too was reasonable. He liked her kissing him—or didn't like her not kissing him—so that was a good motivator. He tried. He really, really tried. But to be frank, he liked it. It was five minutes when he could check out of work, go outside, and be by himself.

He wasn't good at this emotional stuff, at caring for another person. It took effort. He had to take time during the day to sort things out, to remember those niggling details. Was it her birthday? Her mother's birthday? Some kind of anniversary? Had she been angry with him this morning? If so, what did he do? What did he not do? Should he get his hopes up for tonight? Maybe he'd buy her some flowers on the way home. But then she'd think he'd done something. Or would she? Flowers just showed he cared—that was all, right? Or did flowers say 'I'm sorry' and chocolates show he cared? It was all so damn complicated.

By the time she started really bugging him about kicking his dirty little habit, they were living together and things were pretty serious. He needed a lot of time during the day to himself, to figure out what was going on and whether he liked it or not. And since his brain tended to get carried away with a case, he needed something else to remind him that it was time to stop for a few minutes and reflect. Nicotine worked well, he thought, a physical reminder he couldn't ignore for very long. He'd feel the tug in his blood and he'd push the criss-crossing lines of thought aside for a moment. His body would relax and he'd think about the part of his life that didn't come naturally to him for a little while. It was almost always a relief to get back to work after a smoke break, especially if they were at a place he didn't understand.

Sure, he loved her. He wanted to marry her. He was certain of those two things. But the amount of work he had to put in to keep things up was exhausting. Maybe he'd just lived by himself and for himself only too long: a permanent bachelor. But then he saw Wilson, the great times he'd had with his wives (only two then). There were bad times for him, too, and he came through it okay. So why not? Why not him too? He could make it work. It would just require more smoke breaks, that was all.

All that smoking he did. Now _there_ was addiction. Coming off Vicodin was a walk in the park on a fine spring day compared to nicotine. And it was made better—or worse?—by the fact that he had to do it laid up in a hospital bed where he had no access to smokes and nowhere to smoke them even if he did. The heavy pain meds helped and they gave him nicotine patches and gum when he asked, but there were still times when he'd wake up in the middle of the night ready to crawl across the Sahara on broken glass for one smoke. No amount of hyperbole could adequately express the absolute need he had for a cigarette and five minutes alone to smoke it.

Because in the hospital, he was never really alone. Someone was always checking on him. He could hardly move at all without setting off alarms in the beginning. How was he feeling? How was the pain? Those questions got so old so fast that he was ready to jump out the window the day after he came out of surgery.

And then his mom was there, worried, helpless. The years he took off her life...

Wilson had been great about it. Probably kept her from dropping dead of shock on the spot. He loved her, he knew she only wanted to help, but there was nothing she could do. Patting him on the head got old real quick. And he had to worry about her. Could she get around town? Was she comfortable? Was she bored? Didn't she miss Florida, her friends there? Wilson had been great about that, too, seeing to her, letting him know she was in good hands.

But she refused to sneak smokes in for him. So did Wilson, the rat bastard son of a bitch. Didn't they realize that he was in prison and he needed something to bribe the guards with? It was a life sentence; they were going to let him burn in the fire of cravings while he lived it out, nothing to make it more bearable. He'd been pissed off, which was a good thing in the end, because it made him work harder.

So he was where he was now because no one would sneak him a cigarette when he first started to recover?

He laughed quietly. That was ludicrous. Even more ludicrous than a fat guy from Wisconsin winning a vacation in Bermuda because he landed on the right spot on the wheel and guessed 'T' in a twenty-two letter clue. And then he won a car because he knew 'Whisk' was a household item? Lucky bastard.

House sighed to himself. Two glasses of Scotch and half a cigar had gone a long, long way this evening. He felt better. Sleepy. Drunk. Good. Not as envious as usual of Sajak.

He took a sip of water, leaned back and closed his eyes, far away from himself.

He was asleep before the first round of Jeopardy! was over.

* * *

Across town, Wilson watched an accountant from Delaware win 16,301 dollars on a Final Jeopardy! question about mollusks. She didn't get it right—no one did—but she wagered only ninety-nine dollars. What was it with wagers of ninety-nine dollars? Why not just wager nothing? No risk, no gain, right? But he didn't follow that train of thought. He had other things on his mind.

Charlie was asleep at his feet. He'd recalled half-way through Wheel of Fortune that Julie had a "book club" meeting tonight. He'd have to feed himself. He got out a bottle of whisky and the phone and ordered a pizza. Sausage and pepperoni for Charlie. Seemed like a good idea.

He wanted to call House, make sure he'd made it into his apartment okay, that he had something to eat. Wilson had spent enough time there to know that he didn't always have something to eat that didn't have mold growing on it. But he had cash, checks, credit cards, a telephone, and the kind of memory that stored the number of every take out place in town, even the ones he didn't like. Besides, if he called him now, all he'd get, _if_ House picked up at all, would be a sigh and some caustic remark like "You're such a woman, Jimmy. No wonder she's cheating on you. She's not gay." Har har har.

So he wouldn't call.

Yet.

"Charlie," he said. The dog woke and looked at him. "What should I do?"

Charlie just looked at him, head cocked, slightly puzzled, and put his head back down.

"Thanks, you're a big help," Wilson said sarcastically even as he reached down to rub the dog's head. He was only a dog after all.

He took a long drink and watched a guy named Bud win a trip to Bermuda because he had such incredible powers of deduction that he called out 'T' as the first letter of a long clue. Someone alert Mensa, quick—a genius was on the loose.

Bermuda would be nice. There was a drug rep who'd been sniffing him up about a conference in Bermuda. She was hot, too. But she was also new and he felt too much like crap right now to think about going after her.

What to do, what to do...

Had he done the right thing today? Letting him leave like that? Go home when he only had one good hand and a litany of other problems? Anything could happen.

Sure, anything could happen at any time. One of those countries pissed at the US could drop a bomb on New York—they'd get some of the fallout for sure. There could be another Chernobyl. A butterfly flapping its wings in China could set off some bizarre reaction...

But that wasn't the point. The point was that House didn't know how sick he was. Or maybe that he refused to acknowledge it.

Wilson snorted. Like that had never happened before.

He remembered a few years ago, the first time he found out Julie was cheating on him—with some little twerp called Anton who used to clean their pool or something. He'd gone out first and gotten smashed in a hurry, then bought a six pack and headed over to House's place.

House hadn't been at work all week. He'd looked sick the week before, but Wilson didn't know if he was sick or just taking a week off from life. He did that sometimes—holed up in his apartment and didn't move for a week, finally crawling out Monday morning looking like he'd been living in a cave for months. So he was either still sick or on a soap opera bender. Whatever the case, they'd done the 'she left me'/'I fucked up' thing together for so long that no one else would really understand the gravity of the situation. And House might feel a little betrayed if he went to someone else.

He had to knock twice, drunk and impatient, before he heard movement from within.

House opened the door and saw him standing there.

"Better not come in," he said in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat. "I've got the plague. It's catching."

Wilson stared blankly at him until House noticed how he looked: no tie, shirt untucked, first three buttons of his shirt undone, wrinkled, hair mussed, pale, inebriated, hangdog. And he had a six pack with him.

"Oh," he said coughing, "it's that bad." He looked Wilson over again. "You better come in then."

Wilson started to step automatically over the threshold when House stopped him and said, "Wait a second, let me clean up a little. You don't wanna see the shit I've been hacking up. Tin cans, old boots, tires with busted tread, some sort of slime or algae. It's a minefield in there."

Wilson pushed passed him.

"Don't care," he muttered, sweeping aside the wads of kleenex that littered the coffee table and dropping the six pack so that the bottles rattled. He grabbed one and fell back into a chair in one motion.

House was still standing at the door. "Make yourself at home," he mumbled and closed the door.

He coughed hard into his right fist, clutching his chest with his left arm as he made his way across the room. If Wilson had been paying attention, he'd have noticed that House's cane was conspicuously absent, but he wasn't. Too wasted.

House sat carefully, still holding his chest and coughing. "What..." he said between coughs, "...happened?"

Wilson absently handed him a beer, staring at the television. He needed a little while to collect himself first.

House watched him for a moment, noticing how he was obviously in another place. He twisted the cap off the beer and said, basically to himself because Wilson wasn't listening, "Oh, it's _that_ bad."

They both stared at the television, drinking their beers, not paying attention to the screen. House's coughing interrupted the narrator often and he kept hugging his chest. The entire week had been a nightmare. Having to take off work at all because he was sick was bad enough in itself but actually being too sick to work, that was intolerable.

Cuddy'd shooed him home the Wednesday before last after the parents of the kid he was treating and most of the fourth floor complained for the umpteenth time about having a sick doctor around. She'd poked her head into his office Wednesday afternoon. He was just sitting there, looking like crap, playing a video game. "House," she said, "go home before you infect the entire hospital."

She'd been a little surprised at his reaction. He merely shrugged. "You're the boss man," he said, flipping his Gameboy shut and beginning to gather his stuff.

She shook her head, wondering briefly if she'd been spirited into a parallel universe where Greg House was tractable. _That was weird._

She just happened to be at the front desk when he walked in Thursday morning looking, if anything, worse than he had the day before. She took one look at him, noting the red lining his too-bright eyes, and said, "House, you've got a fever." He just stood there looking dazed. "Go home and don't come back until it's gone."

Again, he obeyed, turning around and exiting. _That was really weird_. _And way too easy_. Only he would ignore a hospital policy designed to _protect _patients and insist on coming in to do no work at all when he was sick. She shook her head again and thought nothing more about it.

He'd stopped calling in sick a few days ago. She knew how to use a phone. At least, he hoped she knew how to use a phone. It would be pretty hard to get where she was without phone skills. ...but then again, she did have boobs and they compensated for a lot of things.

But that was neither here nor there. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't in the worst shape among the people in his apartment. Wilson was _definitely_ hurting more than he was with his a little head cold that had inconveniently migrated and refused to leave.

Wilson finished his beer and slammed the empty bottle on the table, knocking more kleenex off. He grabbed another and opened it, taking a long swig.

"Are you gonna tell me or do I have to guess?" House asked, trying not to cough so much. Wilson was risking his life being here. This was the cold from _hell_.

Wilson muttered something into his bottle.

"Come again?" House said, coughing. He couldn't hold it in.

"Shescheatingonme," he muttered again.

House was listening more closely this time and caught it. "Oh," he said. "Shit."

Wilson grunted and took another drink.

House waited until a fit of coughing subsided before he took as deep a breath as he could and said, "Why're you wasting your time on beer then?"

He got up and found two clean glasses—a minor miracle since his cleaning lady hadn't come that week—and a bottle of whisky.

Back in his chair, he poured the drinks and held one out to Wilson. "Drink at your own risk," he said, trying not to cough and spill it. "The bubonic's rough this season."

Wilson accepted it absently and downed it in one gulp then picked his beer up again. He was double-fisting tonight. So it was _that_ bad. Shit. That was _really_ bad.

Wilson put the glass on the table and House refilled it.

House left his untouched. He'd stick with the beer for now. With this kind of start, the evening might get ugly and he might need his wits about him.

He was about to ask another question to loosen Wilson into talking when he coughed hard and felt mucus coming up. He swore and got to the sink as fast as he could, wincing in disgust at the color of it. Gross.

He spat and ran the tap to get it down the drain.

"Tampon that time," he said. "Used." Maybe that'd rouse him out of his funk.

When he sat down again and took up his beer, Wilson was a little more aware of his surroundings.

"Have you seen a doctor?" he asked distantly.

"I'm looking at one right now," House answered, smirking. It didn't have the desired effect. Wilson ignored him.

"You should," he said, still absent.

"Doctors are idiots," House said.

Wilson shot him a glare and the corner of his mouth tugged upward slightly.

_That_ got him. _Finally_. Which was good because there was a knock-knock joke on deck if the old 'doctors are idiots' gag failed.

"Present company excluded of course," House said, smirking his smirkiest smirk now that he had an audience.

Wilson smiled a little. He looked down into his beer and his smile faded.

"I don't know what to do," he said quietly. He picked up the second whisky and downed it in one go too. Then back to his beer. It was a bad night when you were using beer as a chaser.

"Well, you did the right thing coming to me," House said. He paused. "...but I don't know what you should do either," he said. "If it were me, I'd cheat right back, but that's just me and I'm a retributive son of a bitch. You're not really one of those."

Wilson looked at him, vaguely amused. "I'm not what? A retributive son of a bitch?" He sipped his beer. "Can I get you to put that in writing?"

"Why?" House asked. "I thought it was common knowledge."

"Oh, it is," Wilson said, grinning, "but your admitting to it isn't."

"So, what, you want to frame it and hang it on your wall?" He coughed and pressed his left hand against his ribs. This time Wilson saw him do it.

"That'd be kinda cool, actually," House said. "Lemme get a pen and some paper." He made to get up but then stopped. "Or," he said, excited now, "or we could get some fancy stationary and a calligrapher. Make it look nice." He coughed again and grimaced.

Wilson was interested now, concerned. His mind was off his troubles and onto those of his friend where they belonged. House looked like crap. Wilson could tell from where he was sitting, drunk as he was, that House had a fever. And that cough and the way he held his chest...

"Do you have a stethoscope?" he asked lightly. It came out kind of fumbled. Perfect time to be wasted. Just perfect.

House made a face. "How the _hell_ would that fit in with calligraphy? Maybe if you got a shadow box, but..."

Wilson just looked at him.

House rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course," he said, "do you want the one in the bathroom, the bedroom, or the one hidden in the heel of my shoe? The last one requires some assembly but it's very James Bond, don't you think? I highly recommend it. The others are just for show, really. They don't even work. But the shoe model is made of whalebone. PETA's after my blood over it, but I personally find it rather life-affirming to live a little like 007. All I need now is a gun and an arch-nemesis." He paused. "Wait. Cross out that last one. I just need a gun."

"And an Astin Martin," Wilson said. He sniffed. "Good luck finding one."

House looked contemplative. "But can my arch-nemesis be female?" he asked. "Wouldn't that intimidate the other Bond girls?"

"Nah," Wilson said. "If anything, it'd make for a good three-way."

"Oooo, now you're talking," House said. "We should-"

A violent cough cut him off and spoiled the moment.

"House," Wilson said, "how long have you-"

"I thought you came here to talk about you, not about me," House got out before Wilson could go any further. He cocked his head. "Well, maybe not about you, maybe more about Julie and her infidelity, but definitely not about me, that's for sure."

"You think you're so good at changing the subject," Wilson said, finishing his beer. "You're not."

"I'm not?" House echoed, acting affronted.

"No, you're not," Wilson said.

House stared at him, grinning.

Wilson realized belatedly that he had managed to change the subject on him. Again.

"You're a bastard," he said, smiling. Maybe House was okay despite the cough.

"My father begs to differ," House said. "My mother, too, and she should know, she kind of had a hand in things. More than you anyway."

House took a swig of his beer. It was getting warm. "So what is the nature, species, kingdom, phylum, genus, and whatever I left out of the infidelity?" he asked.

He'd have to work hard to keep up his act until Wilson passed out, but he didn't think that would take too much time, not at the rate Wilson was putting the booze away. Which was good because he couldn't keep it up much longer and he did _not_ fancy a trip to the ER with his overcautious, totally skunked best friend at one in the morning. So he'd do his best to keep his lungs in one piece while he kept Wilson on the topic he came to talk about and off any other topics, most especially those having to do with his health. Because he was fine. Really. Just a bit sniffly. Bad weather, that was all.

Wilson sighed. "I don't know much," he said. "He's a plumber or an electrician or something."

"Jesus," House said, trying to breathe delicately. "She dumped you for that?"

"I know," Wilson said, picking up a third whisky and taking a gulp. "Sounds like a kid too."

"Sounds?" House asked.

"Answering machine," Wilson said. He finished the glass off. This was going well.

House snorted. "At the top of the evolutionary ladder, isn't he?"

"Yeah, a real Einstein," Wilson said, helping himself to another glass of whisky.

"Shit," House said. "Well, Julie's no Mrs. Robinson if it's any consolation," he said. "The actress, I mean. Hot like her." He was messing it up.

"Does it matter?" Wilson asked, suddenly very, very interested in the contents of his glass.

"I guess not," House said. "D'you know where he lives? I know where we can get some dog crap and a paper bag."

Wilson laughed sadly. "No," he said.

"Too bad," House said. "I haven't left a flaming dog turd on anyone's doorstep in at least six months."

"Six months?" Wilson asked. "Who'd you brown bag surprise then?"

House grinned wickedly. "A certain hospital administrator we all know and love."

Wilson snorted. "You did not."

House's grin got even more wicked. "Oh but I did."

Wilson laughed. "Did she see you?"

"No," House said, "I was cleverly concealed. But she might've heard me. She called the cops."

"And you stuck around long enough to find that out?" Wilson said. "What is it with you two?"

"It's simple, really," House said. "She's the anti-Christ and I'm the anti-anti-Christ."

Wilson shook his head. "Does that make you the good one or the bad one?" Wilson asked.

"The good one," House said incredulously. "_Hello_? Are we talking about the same person?" This was going well.

Wilson laughed again. "Did you ever chase girls you liked around the playground in first grade, hit them when you caught them, and then run away expecting them to chase you back?" he asked.

House's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, everyone did, why?"

Wilson shot him a devious look. "I don't believe you ever graduated from elementary school emotional maturity class."

"Oh no you don't," House said, knowing what was coming.

"No, I don't. _You_ do," Wilson grinned. "Greg and Lisa sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-"

House threw a pillow at him before he could finish. "Shaddup you."

This was going better than he could have imagined. Just a regular night. Only problem was, he really needed to cough. Really, really, really badly.

Finally he couldn't help it. Wilson saw him, heard him, and wasn't too far gone to register the significance of it. No, he wasn't okay. Not at all.

"One of these days," Wilson said, finishing off the whisky, "it's literally going to kill you to see a doctor."

House coughed some more, holding his chest. "You do realize," he said between coughs, "that...that...doesn't make sense."

"Yes it does," Wilson said. It seemed to. "If you'd gone to the clinic—or come to me even, or figured it out yourself—a week ago, you'd be fine now. Some antibiotics, a little downtime over the weekend, good as new. Why's that so hard?"

"Antibiotics are grossly over-prescribed," House said.

"Not when you're about to hack up a lung," Wilson countered. "That's what they're for."

"Yes, thank you, Drunky McDrunk," House said, "I know that."

Wilson was starting to lose focus. "First thing tomorrow," he said, pointing an unsteady finger at House.

House looked at him, his best 'you're-an-idiot' face on. "...you'll...point your left index finger at me in a threatening yet totally tanked way?" House asked, watching Wilson start to fade. Wouldn't be long now. One advantage of drinking with the same person for so long was that you knew when he was ready to go down.

"You know what I mean," Wilson mumbled, head starting to loll.

"Sure I do," House said, taking the glass from Wilson's hand and starting to turn off the lights. He needed to lie down for a long time now, preferably in a dark, quiet place. This had been more tiring than he'd thought it would be. Wilson was out and snoring in the chair by the time he got to his bedroom.

Much of this, of course, Wilson either didn't know or didn't remember. But what House didn't know was how Wilson had come to a few hours later feeling like shit and wondering what had happened, why House wasn't passed out in the chair next to him as per their usual arrangement. It took him a while to remember the night's events in their proper sequence.

Julie. That snot-nosed punk. The bar. Showing up at House's.

And then something was off, something he couldn't put his finger on immediately. Then he had it. House had been dumb enough to get himself a nice case of pneumonia.

He went to check on him on his way to the bathroom in the dim hope that House had miraculously bought an OTC pain killer between now and the last time he'd gotten completely trashed and stayed over.

No luck on the pain killers. He left the bathroom light on so he could have some light in the bedroom.

"House," he whispered.

The sound of wet, labored breathing, but no luck.

He tried again. "House."

Nothing.

Then aloud, "House."

Nothing. No "go'way leavemealone."

Funny, cause House was a light sleeper.

He tripped over a few things on his way to the light switch so that by the time he found it, he should've made more than enough noise to wake his friend up and piss him off royally.

He turned the light on.

Nothing.

Weird.

This definitely wasn't the guy he'd roomed with.

"House, wake up," he said, stepping closer to the bed. He looked bad. Pale, tips of his ears flushed, not resting comfortably, and...what was that? Wilson dug around under the covers and found House's hand to get a look at his fingernails. Yep. Cyanotic. Only slightly, but slightly was more than enough. And his hand was burning up: he'd spiked a fever. It was like standing next to a furnace. All this because he didn't like doctors or antibiotics or some stupid crap like that?

Wilson shook him and called his name again.

Nothing.

Shook him again.

Nothing again.

Knuckles to the sternum.

That got a muddled "go'way" and set off some coughing, but he was pretty well non-responsive.

House later claimed that he remembered all of it, that he'd even tried to talk Wilson out of calling the paramedics.

Wilson let him talk because he didn't want to force him deal with the alternative.

Truth was that he'd come to in the ER after they'd gotten his temperature down a few degrees and given him some oxygen. He was pissed all right but not in any shape to put up a fight.

Wilson was almost grateful to have something to take his mind off his marriage, especially when it was something he could monitor and solve, some place he could be where he was needed. House would _never_ admit to that, that he needed anyone at all. But that was okay. Because House was okay.

That hadn't been the first time and it certainly wasn't the last time, but it was one of the worst times. One of the closest shaves. His O2 sats were downright scary when the paramedics arrived. Wilson shuddered a little thinking about it.

Wilson sighed. Had he let him do it again tonight?

He looked down at the dog. "Charlie," he said, "should I call him?"

Charlie just sighed in his sleep. The doorbell rang. Pizza, right.

He paid for it and sat down in front of the television to eat. Charlie perked up and begged for some scraps.

"Oh, now I've got your attention," Wilson said.

The dog whined.

"Okay, okay, here," he said and started tossing bits of sausage into the dog's mouth.

Would he call him?

Maybe.

Maybe.

* * *

**A/N con't:** I'm going to go back and modify the timeline of this fic since we now know that House has been through three "regime changes" at PPTH, which means he's probably spent most of his 20 years of doctoring there. I'm also modifying the 'everything happened six years ago' thing that I let slip in here.

So, modified timeline: leg gets messed up eight/nine years ago (this would be 1996-7 and he'd be thirty-six or thirty-seven), takes him two years to get his shit together (I'm leaving in the short-lived job in Cali), Cuddy hires him about six years ago and lets him off clinic duty at first, then it becomes a habit, then it gets out of control, then we find ourselves at the Pilot. Make sense? I'm interested to hear your thoughts on this.

(Little incidental note: I know the Crocodile Hunter wasn't on national TV yet in 96/97, but by golly, I'm not changing it.)

Did Cuddy and House have an affair? I think yes but I don't think Wilson knows (see the line in one of the earlier episodes about there being "A Great Wall of China between love and hate with armed sentries posted every twenty feet"—the fact that Wilson asked if he was sleeping with her proves he doesn't know about the earlier affair, imo, if there was an affair at all). Either way, it probably won't come up here. I had the 'Greg and Lisa sitting in a tree' banter written well before this ep aired so I left it in because it fit the moment. :)

Finally, sorry for taking till now to get this up! I'd planned to have it up on Monday but it proved a little more difficult to write than I'd expected. And I know there's not any plot in it. Sorry! But I promise at least some of it is going to come back in later. :)

Oh and the epigraph? Nick Flynn rocks. _Some Ether_ is one of those rare books of poetry you can read in an hour, understand, and yet still return to over and over again. I highly recommend it.

And the pizza from last chapter—I just put down the first things that came to mind, one overtly disgusting and the other two relatively normal as per the rule of three in comedy. ;)


	15. Night Three: Killing Time

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Night Three: Killing Time**

_I'm not living  
I'm just killing time  
Your tiny hands  
Your crazy kitten smile_

_Just don't leave  
Don't leave_

—Radiohead, "True Love Waits"

Noise from the foyer woke Wilson. He could tell it was late. He opened his eyes and saw the credits for Conan running. Charlie got up and started whining.

"Shh, go back to sleep," he heard her say. The clatter of car keys.

And then he smelled her. New perfume. Strong. He had a feeling that if he looked up over the back of the couch where he'd been sleeping, he'd see that her clothes were ruffled, her hair was out of place, her lipstick was gone. But he didn't need to. The perfume said it all.

So she was at it again.

No matter how many times it happened, he always felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.

He still loved her. He didn't mean for things to go bad between them. They always just spun out of control and by the time he noticed, they were too far gone for him to fix.

Sure, there were still days when he came home happy to see her and she was there and happy to see him and they talked amicably and realized that everything wasn't over yet and that they could still make it work somehow, that there was still some love left, that they could at least try, and they went upstairs and had amazing sex, sometimes twice in one night, and he went to work grinning the next day or they stayed in if it was the weekend and things were okay again for a little while.

But those days didn't come as often as they had in the past. He knew this phase of the relationship. He'd lived through it twice before. Could be next month, could be next year, but their marriage was at n-stage, very probably beyond hope. And yet he could always bring himself to hope, even when she came home at 2 a.m. on a weekday smelling like she'd used a whole bottle of expensive perfume in one night and he felt the fire in his chest that meant he needed a good, stiff drink before he was ready to do anything, least of all think about what had just happened. Because nothing was ever really beyond hope for him. That was how he managed to stay sane at work. But maybe he was being too naive when it came to his marriage.

Charlie whined again.

"Didn't he feed you?" he heard her ask, "or is he still at that damned hospital with that moron House."

_Where he should be_, Wilson thought automatically. He certainly wasn't needed here.

He heard the clack of her heels coming toward him and shut his eyes, feigning sleep. He couldn't deal with her right now. Not after today. Not after this week. Not after what he'd just discovered.

He heard her turn the TV off and stand beside him. He tried not to jump when felt her caress his cheek and lightly brush his hair back. Her fingernails against his scalp. So good.

He didn't know what to do. What could he possibly say to her now? So he kept pretending to sleep.

He heard her feed Charlie and put him out, then her footsteps on the stairs.

He opened his eyes to darkness. He wanted to run, to get out of here, to go somewhere else so he could sort things out.

House's place was the obvious choice. The bars would be closed in fifteen minutes and he was too tired to want get up and drive to a bar, have a drink, get tossed at closing time, and drive back...where? here?

But he couldn't go to House's. Things were too weird between them right now.

He felt like such a snake. He ran through the logic again—it was necessary to see if he really was addicted and to make him see it, he couldn't go on increasing his intake like he had been, his liver couldn't take it, and as much as he liked to believe he was infallible, he was taking more than enough to get high and sooner or later he _would_ make a mistake and it would probably cost him his license.

But that look on his face as he chewed a pill up, was that him getting high or him getting relief from the pain? And if his increased intake meant not that he was resistant to the drug but that the pain was worse, what then? Was he just getting older or was something wrong? The fact that he'd started chewing the pills sometimes indicated...well, either of those. It was a sign of addiction, he knew that, but after witnessing how bad the pain had been for him this week, he wasn't as eager as he had been to leap to addiction as his first and only conclusion. _To break your own hand_...

So it was probably some combination of all of the above—pain, resistance, age, addiction. Something they needed to know. So...it had been worth it, right? Necessary? Justified? They couldn't just let him go on like he had been, could they? There had to be some reckoning, some change, right?

But tomorrow? Where would he be then? Back on the narcs, getting high again, getting addicted again. And now that he'd proven his point—that his leg did in fact hurt like all hell most of the time—now that he'd shown everyone that he did need the narcs, would he take advantage of the sympathy he knew he'd get and think that he could go to an even higher dose with impunity? And could he? This wasn't a problem that was just going to go away on its own.

Wilson knew he'd tried alternatives to narcotics in the beginning, after it was clear he'd have pain for the rest of his life. Hell, he'd been there for most of it. But that had been years ago. What he'd done between then and now was between him and his physical therapist, and trying to get him to talk about PT was as pointless as doing a rain dance in the Mohave. He hated it. It embarrassed him even more than it hurt him. He'd stopped letting Wilson take him years ago and Wilson hadn't pushed because he knew it was an area House needed to keep private.

And there were other things he needed to keep private. Wilson knew he'd seen too much today, that House was embarrassed and angry not only at being so unable to control his own body but even more because that there'd been a witness to it all, that he couldn't even hide away in his office and keep his shit luck to himself.

That's what tonight had been about. He needed to go off and lick his wounds on his own.

Which was fine. Wilson understood that. He more than understood it. He'd been there himself more times than he wanted to count.

But House was in such bad shape physically...and with only one good hand...

All the things that could happen, all the things that could go wrong flashed through his mind. A faceplant into a sharp corner. A slip on wet tiles. He couldn't really sleep on his side—he could aspirate if he was sick. Knowing him, he probably started drinking the second he got in the door. If he was desperate enough...

He should call him.

If nothing else, he should at least call.

But he really didn't feel like talking.

And if House had managed to get to sleep and he was all right, what was the use of waking him up? Wilson knew how much trouble he had sleeping.

And he was a grown man who knew how to take care of himself, even if he chose to ignore what he knew from time to time. He was probably fine anyway. Or he'd be fine for the next three or four hours.

Yeah, he was probably asleep. Probably fine.

Better not call.

He sat up and poured a large drink instead, gulped it down, and lay back on the couch to try to sleep a little more himself if he could.

He was fine.

* * *

_Garcin: But, I say, where are the instruments or torture?  
Valet: The what?  
Garcin: The racks and red-hot pincers and all the other paraphernalia?  
Valet: Ah, you must have your little joke, sir!  
Garcin: My little joke? Oh, I see. No, I wasn't joking. (A short silence. He strolls around the room.) No mirrors, I notice. No windows. Only to be expected. And nothing breakable. (Bursts out angrily.) But, damn it all, they might have left me my toothbrush!_

—Jean-Paul Sartre, "No Exit"

House's stomach woke him around midnight. Bleary as he was from sleep and alcohol, he had enough warning to get to the kitchen in time to avoid cleaning up a mess.

He washed his mouth out and leaned against the counter, entire body hurting. Way past time for more Ibuprofen.

He sighed, feeling his stomach stabilize, and kicked himself. He'd known this would happen and yet he didn't have the foresight to leave a container of some sort in arm's reach? That was just dumb. Not like him at all. But, okay, there were extenuating circumstances. He'd had a rough week. He wouldn't dwell on it.

After he'd had a minute's rest, he went back into the living room and collected the Benadryl, the IB, and the water, doing his best not to spill or drop anything as he worked his way to the bedroom. He put them down on the bedside table and went to brush his teeth, which were working on a good three day's growth of fur. He could use a shave too. But not now. Now he needed some pain meds and a nice flat surface to lie down on. He wouldn't mind a drink but that would mean a trip back to the living room and a trip to the kitchen for ice, so unless it magically levitated itself to him, it wasn't going to happen.

He went back into the bedroom and got a shirt out of his dresser. The pants weren't worth the trouble but he wasn't going to sleep in an itchy, soiled shirt any longer than he could help it and he could help it now.

He sat down on the bed and popped two Benadryl and three Ibuprofen, waiting for the first to settle in his stomach a little more before he turned to the task of getting his shoes off. His leg was really killing him. He had a feeling he might have done something else to it when that rageaholic belted him and he hit the wall—it had given in a funny way and his knee hadn't been very happy since—but he was more than content with an evil bruise, so until that something else presented itself in a way he couldn't ignore, he'd ignore it. Probably nothing.

He sighed, hoping the IB would kick in fast, and bent, body groaning, to get his right shoe off. His left hand, which had been hanging uselessly by his left leg, started to throb and he pulled it up against his chest, awkwardly holding it in the air while he was bent over working his shoe off as fast as he could.

The Vicodin tomorrow was going to be sweet. Very, very sweet. If he could just sleep until then...

In a way, he was almost glad that he was incessantly tossing his cookies. The Benadryl would put him to sleep and keep him from mulling over things he didn't want to mull over until he was back on his regular pain meds and back on food. That seemed the best way to approach the remaining hours. But if he wasn't careful, he'd start mulling now, before the meds kicked in, and he wouldn't be able to stop. He knew himself; he knew that he'd fight them until he resolved whatever he was thinking about and that could take days. He was tired and hurting. He wanted to welcome drowsiness when it came. And on top of the drinks he'd had earlier, it would probably come quickly. He hoped so. He'd have to keep his mind on something else until then, though.

He started idly wondering what had happened on The OC, gritting his teeth as he lifted his leg to pull the shoe off. Predictably, pain shot up it and he hunched over. Now he had real something to concentrate on: breathing, not falling over. The OC would've been better than this. Much, much better.

Just as he adjusted to the new pain level and started working on his other shoe, his stomach burbled with the water he'd used to wash down the pills and he burped, grimacing, pressing his right hand against it. Maybe the Benadryl would kick in fast and do its other job too. That would be immensely preferable to the alternative.

He got his left shoe off and set it aside with the right one, some place where he wouldn't trip over them in the morning. It was then that he noticed that a certain trashcan he distinctly remembered leaving a mess in a few days ago was gone. He knew his cleaning lady would never touch that, so it must've been Wilson. But he wouldn't think about that. Not right now. Dammit, not now.

He concentrated instead on getting the scrub top off. Damn polyester and its non-elasticity. He was lucky that it fit him loosely enough that he could work his right arm out of the sleeve and get it off that way, avoiding any use of his left hand. He put on the clean, well-worn cotton shirt carefully and then sat still for a little while, getting ready to go into the complex motion of getting his leg on the bed and on top of a pillow. The faster he could do it the better.

He took a deep breath and executed a move that would've won gold in gymnastics for its efficiency. It still hurt, though, and he lay there, gasping, doing his best to ride the pain out, starting to sweat lightly.

By the time it leveled off, he was feeling sleepy and a little less achy. He grabbed a pillow for his leg and wormed his way under the covers. He turned the light off and lay still in the darkness, breathing and trying not to think until the full force of the Benadryl knocked him out.

* * *

**A/N:** Short again, but time has to pass somehow. :) Cheers to St. Patrick's Day & to the fact that we celebrate the arrival of Christianity in Ireland by drinking green beer and Guinness until we're green ourselves. Lovely semi-holiday.

Thanks for all the reviews! They're good for getting the writing going. :) To the question about the timeline, it came from lots of thinking and speculating, and reading other people's thinking and speculating. I finally settled on something because doing that was easier than waiting for it to come up on the show, which may never happen.

Reviews are better than hangovers by far. :)


	16. Day Five: The In Between

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** Long time, no update. Apologies. School started back up and suddenly I remembered that I was in school and that I had all this stuff to do for it. It seriously cut into my slacking off/fic writing time, as you can tell. The good news, though, is that a good bit of the later part of this fic (post-Day Five/Friday) is written now (this particular scene gave me fits for some reason), so I've got something done in the way of the rest of it and that should speed things along. I hope that the nearly week-long interval between updates won't happen again; I don't think that it will—school isn't actually _that _demanding—but I can't promise that, so I won't. Thanks for not flaming me during what I know was an excruciating wait. :)

* * *

**Day Five**

"Every now and then you run up on one of those days when _everything's_ in vain…a stone bummer from start to finish; and if you know what's good for you, on days like these you sort of hunker down in a safe corner and _watch_. Maybe think a little. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers…"

—Hunter S. Thompson, _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_

House started awake tired and stiff the next morning. What? The apartment was silent.

Though it was still dark outside, he could tell from the stiffness in his body that a few hours had passed. Time to get up. But he was still groggy from the mix of Benadryl and booze and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.

He'd closed his eyes and was starting to drift when the phone rang. Oh. That's what woke him.

He lay there thinking while it rang. There was no question who it was on the other end and what the consequences would be if he didn't pick up eventually. But he was warm and relatively comfortable in his bed. He could use some more Ibuprofen, sure, but even his aches and pains were warm and relatively comfortable and would let him go back to sleep if he wanted to. And he did want to.

The answering machine picked up and then died when the caller hung up. He sighed. Wilson knew him too well. He wouldn't leave a message. If the first call had woken him up, this was only the second. A few more rounds of ringing and he wouldn't be able to stand it anymore, as Wilson knew. The first two calls were just to get his attention. Now Wilson would give him time to get up and find the phone. He had a vague idea of where it was. So he had somewhere between five and ten minutes before it rang again. Probably five given how much of a worrywart Wilson had been lately.

He made no move to get up. He'd take the five minutes.

He guessed that it was about 6:30. He usually got in to work at seven—eight at the latest. 6:30. So it would be...eight hours and forty-five minutes or so. Not bad. Sleeping was a really good way to pass the time. He should try it more often.

And now. He was awake but he still felt sleepy enough that he could drift off again. Hell, if he popped another Benadryl or two he could probably sleep until mid-morning.

But then Cuddy would know and he would _not_ give her the satisfaction of showing up late or calling in sick.

And if he didn't get up and answer the phone when it rang again, he had about thirty minutes before he'd hear a key scraping in the door and Wilson would be all over him in the worst way possible.

So he really had no choice. Fine then. He could sit around his office. What were a few more hours when he'd come this far?

He sighed, annoyed, and threw off the covers.

He worked himself into a sitting position, his sore, tired muscles protesting the movement. His stomach growled as he turned on the lamp. He was...hungry? No. More like somewhere in that no-man's land between hungry and nauseous. His stomach hurt. Big surprise. He found the Ibuprofen, got that annoying childproof cap off with one hand, and swallowed two with some water. Wouldn't do to get all dehydrated again. He'd had enough of IVs to last him ten years and he was _not_ interested in having Wilson drag him off to poke more holes in him again. Today was quickly being defined by negatives.

The phone started ringing again. Four minutes. That changed the entire time equation. Now he had to pick up very soon or Wilson would arrive in fifteen minutes instead of thirty. He'd ridden with him; the man could speed with the best of them.

He rubbed a hand across his face and took a deep breath, getting ready to move his stiff right leg to the floor. He needed a shower, if only to relax his muscles.

He braced himself and moved his leg, wincing and grunting as pain ran up and down his leg, shooting stars when his foot connected with the floor. He quickly moved his left leg to join it so that he was sitting on the bed, feet on the floor, doubled over. The effort made him lightheaded. He struggled to breathe and keep himself from falling forward or backward.

He _really_ needed a Vicodin. More like two Vicodin and a morphine chaser. God, this was unbelievably unfair. He kept breathing, trying to push through it. Even his knee and hip hurt more than usual.

He fervently hoped the Ibuprofen would kick in soon and ease the pain just a little. Just a little, that was all he asked. Just enough to make him stop considering taking another fifty of Benadryl, two more Ibuprofen, lying back down and dealing with James when it came time to deal with him. Because anything, _anything_ was better than this.

But wait. He'd been such an idiot.

He grabbed the bottle of Ibuprofen, squeezing it tightly, flattened his hand against his left thigh, and slammed the bottle down as hard as he could. Oh fuck did it work.

He let himself fall back on the bed, nearly laughing with the relief, shaking uncontrollably. His hand hurt like mad and he felt dizzy and sick, but he couldn't feel his leg anymore. He coughed through his teeth, breathing raggedly, laughing now like a lunatic.

God, his hand hurt. The pain wasn't receding. But still he laughed and coughed and sucked in air. Because this pain he had control over. Endorphins rushed belatedly to the rescue, on top of a shot of adrenaline, and he started feeling better.

He could go to work now. He had control over the pain again. Yeah, he could go to work.

He pushed himself up, shaking gone, and grabbed his cane, putting his weight on it and his left leg and standing. He swayed. His blood sugar had bottomed out a while ago. He knew he needed something to eat or he'd pass out in some embarrassing place between his home and office. But the phone was still ringing. It had to be dealt with first. He was running out of time on that front.

He started across the room, grateful the adrenaline was still pumping through him, and found the phone quickly—another thing actually in its place. Shifting his weight to his left leg, he picked up the phone with his right hand and hoped the conversation would be short and sweet so he could avoid losing his balance and having to sit down.

"What?" he barked into the receiver.

"Good morning to you too," Wilson said on the other end, trying to sound breezy, but House could tell he was worried.

There was a pause.

He could hear Wilson thinking: well, he picked up, so he must be mostly okay, so I can't ask him that, so now I need a reason for calling him.

Sure enough, the next thing Wilson said was, "Want a ride?"

"No," House said and belatedly tacked on a "thanks."

There was another pause. _Dontsayitdontsayitdontsayitdontsayit_.

House heard him hesitate and take a breath.

"Okay," Wilson said uncertainly. The question hung in the air between them. "I'll...see you at work then."

"Yeah," House said shortly and hung up.

He put the phone back on its charger, grabbed his cane, and went back to the bedroom. He quickly set about finding a towel and a change of clothes, laying the latter out in a heap on his bed.

The rush of pain from his hand was dwindling and letting his other hurts creep back in. But the IB was due to kick in any second and he was nearly in the shower now.

His pants were still hanging loosely about him so he tugged them down, trying to get them off without fiddling with the drawstring. His thumb brushed against the bruise on his hip and he nearly cried out.

He stood for a minute, not moving.

This was ridiculous. He took a breath and felt himself starting to sway again. No. He wouldn't sit down and have to get back up again.

He took another breath and started working at the knot, which was harder to get undone than he expected it to be. One handed. Everything was more difficult with only one hand. But he was used to that, right? To everything taking extra time? To having only one functioning appendage in a pair? Not with his hands he wasn't.

He finally got the knot undone and let the pants fall to his ankles. He carefully stepped out of them. And then—shit, he'd forgotten about his socks. Couldn't get them off without sitting down first. Maybe he could shower in them and get them off later? He sighed. This was taking too long. He would _not_ be late. He would _not_ give Cuddy an excuse, a reason, anything.

He hobbled into the bathroom and started the shower. A little steam would loosen him up first.

He worked his way out of the t-shirt and tossed it aside. Now to the socks. There was no way around it. He sat carefully on the toilet, teeth set against the gnawing in his leg, and slowly got them off.

Finally.

The room was getting hot and he longed to be in the water. He got his boxers off, careful about his hip, and held onto the towel rack to get into the shower.

No way would he ever let anyone modify his shower to accommodate his...him. He didn't have a special parking spot—well, he did have an assigned parking spot that was his and had his name on it, but it wasn't a _special_ parking spot, not special in that way, not one that required he fill out forms at the DMV and get other special things to denote his specialness—and he sure as hell didn't need a _special_ shower. It had been fitted with a bar long before he got to it and that was more than enough. The realtor who'd shown him the place had tried to hide her nervous glances at his leg and tried to scope him out, to determine whether he was looking for special accommodations or not. He'd let her squirm. In the end, she'd been diplomatic about it, smooth almost; he appreciated her performance—most of the other places he'd looked at had come with blunt, stupid, or nosy realtors—and the layout suited him, so he'd taken it. It had been the fifth place he'd looked at in two days and he was annoyed and hurting by that point, very eager to take the next place that seemed remotely suited to him. So the shower had a metal bar built in. So the shower head was on the right side of the wall, enabling him to hold onto the bar with his left hand. So he had to lift his leg over the retaining wall to get in. So fucking what.

He pushed the thoughts away and stepped under the spray, hooking his left arm around the bar that he avoided using whenever he could, and felt his muscles sigh happily under the water. He just stood there for a moment, letting the water wash over him, savoring its warmth.

He got down to the business of soaping himself up and took a good look at his body for the first time in a while. He looked like he'd recently done time in a concentration camp. The finely toned muscle of his arms and abdomen had lost its definition, reminding him that he hadn't exercised in a while. His skin was pale and unhealthy looking. The rest of him was just bones. Except for the outward curve of his penis, he went straight up and down like a post. Nothing but a line. Well then. He knew what he'd be doing this weekend: pizza, beer, and curls.

He started soaping his groin and thought briefly about jerking off. The release would be nice. He hadn't done it since last weekend so he was well overdue. But to be honest, he just didn't feel like it. His body was tired and hurting and he was more excited about the prospect of getting his meds back and feeling the sweet relief of Vicodin again than he was about sex.

Sad. That was really sad. He sighed.

As soon as he felt up to it, he'd put in a call to his favorite lady of the evening and spend some serious cash on her. Cindy. Thinking about her now, he just might—

His hand brushed against the bruise on his hip and he winced, thoughts of Cindy fleeing. So much for that. The bruise was still very tender. Another trophy. Oh joy.

He avoided the area and finished washing. Setting the soap aside, he turned up the hot water and stood under it for a few more minutes, feeling his muscles loosen even more. Between the shower and the pain killers he was starting to feel better. He just might make it through the next eight hours.

He turned the shower off and reached for the towel, slowly drying himself off. Now he'd have to get dressed again. And that would hurt. Dammit.

He wrapped the towel around his waist—not too tight because of his hip—and went back to his bedroom to find the Ibuprofen. He swallowed another one with a little more water and sat down to get himself dressed.

It took more than ten minutes and he wanted a good, stiff drink when it was done. Something for the pain. Now that he was dressed and ready to go...and the kid must be fine because no one had paged him...and even Cuddy wasn't sadistic enough to force clinic hours on him this morning...so he had nothing to do really...and he hadn't planned on driving to work...so why not? It was a vaguely alcoholic thing to do. But at this point in his life, alcoholism wasn't exactly at the top of his list of concerns. A little nip to kill the pain, then.

He pocketed the IB and the Benadryl and went into the living room to find the bottle. He didn't bother with a glass. Now _that_ was vaguely alcoholic. But he didn't really care. He took a few swallows and put the bottle back down, screwing the top back on with his good hand. Why didn't he think of this before? This was much easier. And much more desperate. It hit his brain and he started feeling dopey and disconnected. Nice.

He shoved a handful of Captain Crunch into his mouth, not caring that his stomach still hurt; he had his blood sugar in mind. His lip pulled as he chewed. He'd forgotten about that. Too many other things grappling for his attention. He ate another handful of cereal, found his wallet and keys and was out the door, trying to walk steadily down the hall.

Elevator. Bus stop. Bus.

The motion of the bus started his stomach up again. What _was_ it with that blasted organ? He'd never been motion sick in his life—on the ocean, in the air, nothing. Hell, he could probably go into space and join the Iron Stomach Club. But right now the bus was making him sick.

Probably the booze and cereal. In retrospect, not the best idea he'd had all week. He pulled the Benadryl out of his coat pocket and popped one into his mouth before he could think about it. So what if it made him sleepy. He didn't think he could take anymore of this.

...and on top of the alcohol. Shit. Not his brightest morning. Luckily, though, he was still a little too buzzed to care all that much.

The bus ride went by quickly enough. He held his stomach and tried to look at his feet until the bus reached his stop.

Off the bus, steps that he hated taking, the only steps he could take, then across the parking lot, into the front door, swooping past the clinic doors hoping Cuddy wouldn't spot him and want to chat, stomach becoming more bothersome at each step. The Benadryl hadn't kicked in and the situation was rapidly escalating.

Elevator.

_Come on, hurry up!_

Jerk.

Motion.

Crap.

No time now.

The second floor lavatory would have to do. If he got that far. He prayed he'd get that far. The alternative was absolutely unacceptable.

The elevator stopped and he got out as quickly as he could, making a beeline for the men's room, teeth gritted. He was either lucky or had better control over his upper-GI tract than the last few days would lead him to believe, because he made it, ducking into a stall just in time, registering that the men's room was empty and sending a small thanks up as he said goodbye to his breakfast once again. His booze, too. Damn. Now he'd be sober again pretty soon. It was one thing to be sick. It was another thing entirely to be sick and sober. Much less fun.

He washed his mouth out at the sink, and as much as he didn't want to, as much as his entire body rebelled at the mere thought, forced himself to swallow a Benadryl to replace the one he'd just puked up. Great.

Now he needed coffee. Lots of coffee. He had a feeling Cuddy would be on the prowl today and didn't want her to catch him napping in his office. That just wouldn't do.

He washed his face, the cool water making him feel better, more awake. He'd dried his face and was washing his hands when another guy entered. His cue to exit. He checked himself quickly; no evidence; he was good to go.

He stepped out of the bathroom, hoping no one familiar with the situation would be haunting the corridor at that moment. His luck held and he made it to the elevator undetected. Maybe things would go his way today.

He got to his office and—shit, Cameron was there in the conference room reading over something. He knew what was coming now. Nothing to do but face it. It was the only way to get coffee into his blood without a trek to the cafeteria and that he did not feel like undertaking. Not now. Not for a few weeks after now.

He hung his overcoat up and glanced over himself again to make sure his appearance revealed nothing. Nothing he could see. Good. Coffee.

He readied himself and hurried into the conference room, trying to make it apparent that he was in a rush and that he wouldn't be interested in conversation. But Cameron was unflappable.

"Dr. House," she said sounding surprised as he made for the cupboard. "Good morning."

He grunted and retrieved his mug.

She was staring at him. He knew it without turning around. It was that look. Like he was made of glass.

He poured the coffee and ignored her.

"Keith's doing much better," she said. "He's improving rapidly."

"Give him a kiss for me," House mumbled, dumping sugar into his coffee.

Now he had a problem. Stand here and drink the coffee, which really wasn't an option; sit at the conference table and drink the coffee, which would make Cameron think he wanted to chat and really wasn't an option either; or somehow get a steaming hot mug of liquid back to his office where he could enjoy it in peace without spilling it.

A magic trick would come in handy right about now. Where was David Copperfield when you needed him?

Maybe he could get it with his good fingers: pinky on the bottom, thumb and forefinger on the handle, busted fingers resting innocently against the side. That seemed right. He sipped it to get the level down and tested his hypothesis, aware that Cameron was watching him while trying not to watch him (she just hadn't gotten that down yet), not caring so much—she'll think what she's going to think, might as well let her do it. His fingers didn't like it but he did a good job of covering the signals they sent to his brain.

There. He'd done it. Now to get the hell back into his office and hope his body language and the barb indicated that he wanted to be left alone. And also that Cameron would actually take the hint.

He settled into his chair and was relishing the warmth of the beverage when...5...4...3...2...1. Yep, there it was, the unmistakable sound Pollyanna coming to the rescue again. He sipped his coffee and tried to look busy. Empty desk but maybe she wouldn't notice that.

"You don't want to see his labs?" Cameron asked, clutching the folder she'd been studying earlier.

He put on the best 'you're an idiot' look he could manage.

"No," he said slowly, spelling it out, "that's _your_ job."

Back to looking busy, staring at his mug. Fire-engine red. Was this mug a throwback to his childhood or was it just a mug? Did he choose it because it was red for some unconscious reason or did he just grab one randomly? It had been around so long he couldn't recall if he'd bought it or if it was there when he arrived.

She was still there, face set and heels dug in.

Well. He'd be damned if he said something first. Cameron couldn't stand silence. Contemplating the significance of his coffee mug might just work, get her out of his office so he could drink his coffee in peace.

But damn, then she starting talking again.

"Dr. House," she said, "why are you here?"

He sighed inwardly, though he'd known it was coming. _Give it a rest_.

But wait. This could be fun. This could be really fun.

"Why am I here?" he repeated. He made a show of thinking about it and finally shrugged. "Why are any of us here?" He sat forward in his chair, his face totally serious, and said in a thick southern accent, "Do you believe in Gawd, Allison?"

She made an annoyed, frustrated noise. "This is serious," she said.

He kept the accent, face still serious, leaning forward even more, and said, "So is Gawd."

Now she was really getting flustered. "Your hand," she said, gesturing with the folder. "You didn't fall."

"How very astute of you, Dr. Cameron," he said dryly, himself again, leaning back in the chair. All that movement. His stomach was still burning. "Do you use your amazing powers of observation often or am I getting special treatment?"

And then in a rush he remembered the lab, the cat, how he'd fallen on his ass in front of her. Oh shit. He was _never_ going to live that down. _Never_. He was so screwed. So totally screwed. _Where_ was Chase? He'd even be glad to see Foreman. No matter what Foreman had seen, he wouldn't bring it up again without extreme provocation. He'd proven his point and he was done. Guys were so much easier to understand. Women. Who knew why they did what they did. Cameron was just...was...just...Cameron. Little Miss Save the World One Person at a Time. So intent on _fixing _him. Well, he wasn't broken, goddammit. He was, however, screwed. Totally screwed.

He hoped none of this had shown on his face. He thought not, but with women one never really knew. He had a vague idea that they could smell it.

She had that exasperated, half-pissed, half-still-concerned mix of emotions on her face and in her posture.

What would it take to get rid of her?

"Really," she said, "why are you here today? Keith's fine, you have no clinic hours, no other cases; why don't you go home until this stupid bet with Cuddy is over?"

She had a point. There was no doubt that she had a point. But it wasn't a point he was ready to take.

"Because I love being here so much, I just couldn't stay home," he said. "Now if you don't mind, I have important doctor stuff to get back to."

"Like what?" she said bitterly. "Playing video games? Watching TV?"

He shrugged, nonplussed at her sudden turn to actually saying what she meant. "Kid could crash again," he said. "You never know."

"He's getting better," she said, looking at the carpet.

Suddenly she looked really tired and he almost felt something for her, something approximate to sorry. But only almost. And only for a second.

She sighed deeply. "Why do you do this to yourself?" she asked softly and with more tact than he would've expected.

It wasn't a question he could answer. It would make him feel things that in his drowsy, listless, generally fucked up state he didn't want to feel. So he turned it back on her.

"What do you want me to say?" he snarled. "That I'm sad and lonely and I need a shoulder to cry on and oh, perfect, here you are, let me cry on _your_ shoulder?" He sniffed. "I like my women hot and sexy, not fussing all over me like my mother. Surely you have enough experience with porn to know that. Legs sell, sympathy doesn't."

That did it.

Cameron turned red and glared at him. When he kept up his 'who, me?' look, she stalked out of the room. If he wanted to kill himself, she'd let him.

Why hadn't he thought of that before? Must be the Benadryl. He could feel it dragging him down even further into drowsiness and the coffee starting to combat that. Between the two of them, maybe he'd break even.

He saw Cameron leave the conference room in a huff. Now the coffee was unguarded. Excellent.

He finished the first cup and got up to get a second.

He wasn't feeling that bad, really. He was still sore and hurting, yes, but the IB had dialed it down enough that he could think. He could even move around without blinding flashes of pain. Nevertheless, he was still eager for 3:15 to come. Some Vicodin, some beer, some pizza, and some television were what he needed right now. He could only get one of the four right now. He checked his watch: 7:56. Seven hours and four minutes, roughly, until he could get two of those things. The rest—he could wait a while longer.

He finished stirring sugar into his coffee and got it back to his desk unspilled. Now. What the _hell _was he going to watch for the next six hours?

* * *

**A/N con't**:

dontuwannakno – Yep, I did know that, thanks. I picked the drugs I picked for a reason. :) Thanks for the review!

And to everyone else, muchas gracias. Merci beaucoup. Ankyouthay eryvay uchmay.

Reviews are awesome. Have I said that already? I'll say it again.

Oh, yes, and R.I.P. Hunter S. Sad day.


	17. Day Five: The View

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

* * *

**Day Five: The View**

_As life gets longer  
Awful feels softer.  
Well it feels pretty soft to me.  
And if it takes shit to make bliss  
Well I feel pretty blissfully.  
If life's not beautiful without the pain  
well I'd just rather never ever even see beauty again.  
As life gets longer  
Awful feels softer.  
Well it feels pretty soft to me._

—Modest Mouse, "The View"

Of all the things he could say about the clinic, perhaps the only good one was that it got great reception. His office didn't get such great reception and he didn't want to mess with the old set he kept in the office. He should've demanded cable back in his office from Cuddy in addition to the month off from the clinic. It had mysteriously disappeared a few years ago and the maintenance crew was still "getting around" to putting it back in. But it was just as well. Nothing interesting was on at eight in the morning anyway.

Gameboy was still out. Internet it was then. Limited internet. He couldn't taunt anyone in chat rooms or on message boards today. That was just too bad. One of his life's true joys was trolling around online.

Instead he opened two windows: one for Netflix and one for the CAP Movie Ministry's review site. Ah, the website that called out the Veggietales: Jonah movie for Wanton Violence/Crime (a W on the WISDOM score sheet) because, and he'd never forget this, of a "personified character being swallowed by a whale." This was true genius at work. He took all of his movie tips from that site. If the CAPon alert level was double red, that was a movie well worth his time. But the analysis offerings turned out to be disappointing so he switched to Netflix and scoped out the new releases.

Saw was a must. Taxi? Maybe. The Motorcycle Diaries made the "Fully Baked Edition" of Half Baked look appetizing, despite the fact that he'd seen that movie twice and stoner films were usually only good for one view for him. Shark Tale was a maybe. He looked it up on the other site. Flashing red light, but a 79 CAP score. That was pretty high and something about sharks smiling with rounded teeth just didn't work for him. On the other hand, he was a Finding Nemo convert, so this one was still in the maybe pile.

He looked up Taxi too. 39. Much more appealing in terms of the score, though he didn't really like Jimmy Fallon. Mr. 3000. 58. Maybe. It had "rub dancing" and 78 bad words vs. Taxi's measly 66 bad words. That was something to consider. But then Taxi had "lesbian touch" and "two muffled/masked uses of the most foul of the foul words" and that just made him curious. Tough decision.

What else...?

Ray. Eh. Biopics were really more Wilson's thing.

So it would be one slasher flick, one washed-up-old-guy-returns-to-sports pic, and one cross-gender, cross-racial unintentional-buddies-in-a-yellow-cab pic. And they'd arrive on Monday, leaving him reruns to watch all weekend unless he ordered something on pay-per-view or got his ass down to Blockbuster and picked something else in the interim. He usually ordered movies for the weekend by Tuesday at the latest but he'd been preoccupied this week. But what the hell. Getting his movies late was worth the time off from the clinic.

He ignored the plot summary for Taxi and scrolled down to read the "Selected Scriptures of Armour against the influence of the entertainment industry." He admired their thoroughness, he really did. 1 Cor. 15:33 (NIV): Do not be misled: Bad company corrupts good character. Hmm. He'd have that tattooed on his forehead but it would be easier to wear around a traffic light that flashed red all the time than to fit the entire verse on his forehead, even if it was more succinct than the King James Version. The small letters the tattoo artist would have to use would totally ruin the effect and then he'd have people squinting at him more than they usually did. Tattoos should be short and sweet and easily removable anyway. That traffic light thing could work, though.

He leaned back in the chair and sighed. Between the Benadryl, the two cups of coffee, and staring at a computer screen for half an hour, and somehow despite the Ibuprofen, he was developing a mean headache. The coffee had gone straight through him too, which was nice in a way. It had been a while since anything had gone straight through him. His stomach still hurt but he wasn't complaining. He'd just have to scare up some Rolaids or something. No biggie. He chewed up another Ibuprofen and went to use the bathroom.

Chase had materialized from nowhere when he got back, crossword spread out before him. House got his mug from his office and washed it out at the sink.

"What's a seven letter word for a German painter, first name Hans?" Chase asked without looking up.

"Holbein" House said, pouring a new cup of coffee. He could feel the caffeine losing out to the Benadryl. "Don't you have work to do?"

"Checked on Keith," Chase said. "He's fine." He paused. "What's a four letter word for 'thinking obsessively'? Second letter is 't'."

"Stew," House said, spooning sugar into his coffee. "You really don't have anything better to do?"

Chase shrugged. "Kid's fine," he said. "Cameron's in a bad mood, though. What did you say to her?" He went back to his crossword. "She wouldn't tell me," he added.

"Oh, the usual," House said, stirring his coffee. "I'd really like to, but we work together and although it'd be fun, things would get weird eventually."

Chase chuckled. "Right," he said. "Six letter word for the phrase 'no need to explain'?"

"Buy a thesaurus," House said and started to limp back to his office. "Or find yourself a patient," he added. "Cuddy could probably use you in the clinic. It's flu season, you know. Lots of runny noses to wipe and snotty hands to hold."

Chase shot him a withering look and he smirked back. "You're better at that than you are at crosswords. Trust me on this one."

"Once more into the breach it is then," Chase grumbled, folding up the crossword and gathering himself to leave.

House carried the coffee to his office, found his iPod, and cued up some Rolling Stones. Satisfaction. Because that just seemed to fit.

Two ducklings down, one to go. Although Foreman might have the sense not to show his head at all today. He was smart and he possessed a strong instinct for self-preservation. And presumably Cameron and Chase would carry the word to him that House wasn't interested in any company at all today.

He went to Yahoo and played blackjack with fake money for a while, but his card counting skills weren't as handy with a computer doing the dealing. Plus it required more typing than he'd remembered. He wouldn't mind a game of pinball but as he recalled, it also required two hands. A card game, then; something he could play with the mouse only. Spider Solitaire with all four decks.

He won a few rounds and quit the game, bored, when he remembered that he hadn't read The Onion for the week yet. If real news brought up bad memories, fake news made them vanish. A full article on how "Area dog will never live up to dog on Purina bag"? How was that not better than real news?

After that, he caught up on the soaps he'd missed all week and once he'd done that, it was still only 9:30. He read too fast, that was the problem. Five hours and forty five minutes. He'd make it. Once something good came on TV he'd be fine.

Half an hour and The View would be on and that would kick off a four hour block of daytime goodness. But for some reason three cups of coffee, about twice what he normally drank, didn't tango too well with the Benadryl and he was starting to crawl out of his skin sitting at the computer.

He got up and paced, unable to sit still, not caring about anything but keeping the pacing up. What he wouldn't give now for a case, for something to do. His office was too small for pacing. He was out the door and half way around the fourth floor before he realized his leg had started to really hurt. Another brilliant idea.

He could feel the muscles clench and knew what was coming. It happened when he was careless—any time he let the muscles get overworked, which he had to be fairly careless to do in the first place. Like driving out to the monastery where Sister Copper Allergy had lived and back again. He'd felt it coming on about ten miles from home and he'd had to pull over, chew a Vicodin, and just ride it out. There was nothing else to do.

And now he had no Vicodin and several yards to go to get to his sanctuary. He still had enough caffeine in his blood to get him there, though, and he hurried, taking a longer stride and putting more weight on his shoulder. Probably looking like a fool. He usually looked like a fool when he tried to rush anywhere. But he felt like a fool, so at least appearance and reality were matching up now.

The first time it had happened was his second day in rehab. He'd pushed too hard, done too much before the physical therapist could stop him and he suddenly found himself on the floor, unable to breathe, surrounded by people and then out. He didn't remember if they'd been merciful and doped him or if he'd just passed out on his own. He woke up several hours later back in his bed and called the nurse immediately for more pain meds, ready to take whatever they'd give him without question. They could have brought him a hammer and he'd have made it work. He didn't even remember what they'd given him, just that he went back out and woke up in time for rounds the next morning. His physical therapist had had a long lecture waiting for him and he didn't push that hard again until a few weeks later when he got pissed off enough at his lack of progress to make the same mistake. She swore he'd learn to be patient with himself in time but he never really did. And so things like this kept happening.

The muscles started to go into full spasm a few steps from his desk chair. The yellow lounge was closer, yes, but he didn't want everyone who walked down the corridor and happened to glance to the left to see him huddled up in pain. Goddammit, it wasn't too much to ask to avoid being gawked at by every by-passer on the fourth floor.

He forced his leg forward, taking as much of his weight as he could with his shoulder; he knew what this felt like: he had about five seconds before his leg gave out entirely. He grabbed the desk with his left hand, jamming his fingers, which didn't work nearly well enough, and managed to hop to the chair and collapse into it, doubling up around his left hand and digging his right fingers into his thigh. He bit his lip and it started to bleed, metallic in his mouth, a drop falling to the dark fabric of his jeans. His tongue swished out to lick the wound and then he bit down again, grateful for the pain and the blood. They were something.

The spasm kicked into overdrive and he squeezed harder, feeling bone and scar tissue in his hand. He'd learned that if he clamped down on the exact spot where the nerves were the most damaged, pain from the nerves would eventually off-set the spastic muscles and he'd have an easier time. He'd usually have a pill chewed up by this point; the disadvantage of setting his nerves off was that he didn't have another hand free to rifle through his jacket, find his pills, and get one into his mouth. But he'd gotten the nerves started now so maybe he could just-

No, there they went again and he tightened his grip involuntarily, his left hand contracting too. Once he had a pill in his mouth, it became a two-handed endeavor. Damn muscle memory. His left hand was a dull throb compared to the muscles in his leg; the jerk did nothing to help it. Was it possible to exhaust that avenue? If he could just...get...one pill...just...one...

He swallowed the blood in his mouth and bit down again, letting his head fall to the glass top of his desk. It felt cool against his forehead. He realized he was sweating. He bit harder and squeezed harder, but it wasn't working. This was a bad one. Then he remembered something.

He sucked in a breath, made a quick fist with his right hand and awkwardly slammed it against the bruise on his hip. He couldn't get the angle right—the arms of the chair were in the way—but it helped a little. His brain was distracted for a few seconds and he had room to breathe, just enough to take some control over the pain.

His hand shook as he reached for the Ibuprofen bottle. He popped it open and let the pills spill onto his desk. He picked up two and shoved them into his mouth, alternately chewing and sucking on them, hastily wiping the blood from his lip. He shut his eyes, feeling tears forming, and tried squeezing the nerves again. It worked. Nerve pain overtook muscle pain and he could feel the muscles easing back to normal or at least not contracting so hard.

He drew in a shuddering breath and let his body go lax, shoulders slumping forward, entire body shaking with relief. Every time this happened he was left absolutely exhausted. He found the Benadryl in his pocket and took one of those too. His stomach hurt like hell but what he really wanted was a nap and he knew another one of those on top of the tiredness he already felt would put him down at least long enough for the Ibuprofen to start working. Most leg spasms were followed by an hour's worth of general stupor anyway.

He was glad they didn't happen more often. The last one had been after he'd whisked John Henry's bed down the hall by himself. He felt it coming on and got to his office in time to experience the roller coaster in seclusion but the Vicodin he'd taken didn't work fast enough and he actually did pass out—just in time for Wilson to see him and rush to wake him up. House was glad he wasn't here now. He'd only make too much of it.

He gathered up enough energy to pick his head up and check to make sure Wilson wasn't standing in the doorway mouth agape or anything dramatic like that. All clear. He quickly swept the pills back into their respective bottles and turned the chair to face the window, carefully propping his leg up on the bookshelf. He leaned back in the chair and brought his left leg up to join its angry, misbehaving twin. His closed his eyes and slowed his breathing until it was even and rhythmic. While the pain in his leg was nowhere near what it had been, it still hurt, as did a number of other places. He let it take him, trying to relax against it.

Several minutes later he could feel drug-induced drowsiness creeping in and he welcomed it. Forget The View.

* * *

**A/N:** The CAP Movie Ministry. You pretty much have to check this out. http/ There's something delicious about people who purport to be terribly offended by the content of most movies sitting around and counting up swear words and taking detailed notes. You'd think they enjoyed it or something. ;) (Side note: as you'll see on their website, Harvard agrees with them about some things; nice, eh? - a scientific study involving research and grant money at a top university was devoted to this. How much you wanna bet House _loves_ that?)

A note on The View. It comes on at 11 a.m. on the east coast according to ABC's website, but the writers of the show gaffed and had General Hospital starting at 1 p.m. in the Pilot, which means that either The View has to start at 10 a.m. or either All My Children or One Life to Live is not shown. You tell which I've gone with. A total anal point, I know, but I thought someone might catch it and try to correct it, so there's my logic behind magically changing the time that The View comes on in New Jersey (although it does sometimes happen that local channels will broadcast a line-up an hour earlier than one would expect, so I guess it's plausible).

A note on "The View." Pretty good song, though not the best one on the album. ;)

The Onion article is real but it's not backdated to February 15 like the movie releases are. So sue me. :P


	18. Day Five: Foreman's Death Wish

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

* * *

**Day Five: Foreman's Death Wish**

_Everything that keeps me together is falling apart  
I've got this thing that I consider my only art  
of fucking people over._

_My boss just quit the job  
Says he's going out to find the blind spots  
And he'll do it. _

The universe is shaped exactly like the earth  
If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were.

—Modest Mouse, "Third Planet"

Foreman arrived late. He and Chase had a system worked out. After a night's breaking and entering followed by a marked improvement in the patient, one would get to sleep a little more and come in late the next day. Today it was Foreman's turn.

He walked into the conference room at ten o'clock sharp. Seeing that it was empty and House was otherwise occupied, he put his stuff away and went to the lab. Cameron and Chase were there: Cameron was recalibrating the centrifuge and Chase was working on what looked like a crossword puzzle. They were talking about something when he entered the room.

"What's up?" he asked.

Chase and Cameron looked up simultaneously to acknowledge him. "Not much," Chase said.

"Keith's doing well," Cameron said.

"And House is extra grumpy," Chase added. Foreman settled into the chair across from him and Chase looked up from his crossword. "You didn't run into him, did you?"

Foreman shrugged. "He looked busy," he said. "I came straight here. Why? What's going on?"

He saw Cameron tense, her back turned to him as she worked on the centrifuge.

"Nothing," Chase said lightly. "But I wouldn't cross his path today if I were you. At least, not until he's got his pills back. He sent me off to the clinic."

Foreman eyed him. "So why aren't you there?" he said dryly.

Chase just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I love being there about as much as House does."

Foreman gave him a look and shook his head, not saying anything. Chase's attitude really got to him sometimes.

"What?" Chase said defensively. "He just wanted to get rid of me. He didn't mean it."

Foreman just shook his head again. "What's House doing here anyway?"

Foreman saw Cameron stiffen again.

"Oooo," Chase said, "I'd stay away from that one if I were you. Touchy subject." Chase leaned in, indicating that Foreman should lean in too. "Don't say anything to Cameron about it," he whispered, "she's upset."

"Cameron," Foreman said immediately, "what'd he say to you?"

Chase flopped back in the chair, defeated. "Good job," he said sarcastically, flipping the pencil onto the table.

Cameron tensed again and didn't turn around. "Nothing I'd want to repeat," she growled. "Chase is right. I'd stay the hell away from him until this stupid bet is over."

"You guys shouldn't let him jerk you around like this," Foreman said.

Chase shrugged and Cameron said, "It's not like we can do anything about it. Just stay out of his way if you want to go home tonight in one piece."

Foreman leaned back in his chair and considered the situation.

After he'd thought for a while, he said to Chase, "Did you tell him about the termites we found?"

Chase looked up, surprised. "No," he said, "I didn't. He kicked me out before I got the chance. But by that point, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He knows he's right anyway. What's the point of telling him? To watch him gloat? I'd rather swallow glass."

Foreman shrugged and said nothing. He thought a while longer. "When do the next round of labs come in?" he asked.

"Eleven, eleven-thirty," Cameron said, turning around, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

Foreman shrugged again. "No reason," he said. "I'm going to get some breakfast."

Cameron and Chase exchanged a look as Foreman stood. "Foreman..." Chase said, "...what are you doing?"

"Nothing," Foreman said with a smile. "Nothing."

Chase stared at him. "Do you have a death wish?" he asked sarcastically.

"Nope," Foreman said. "Just going for coffee."

He left Chase and Cameron confused in his wake and went to the cafeteria.

* * *

Foreman sat in the cafeteria drinking his coffee and thinking over the past week and the five or six months that had passed working with House so far. 

He'd had several offers. He'd applied for several fellowships. He'd been very pleased to receive the offer to work under House—one of the most prestigious jobs in the country. House hadn't seemed especially 'off' to him in the interview. Well, no more so than any department head. They all had something up their sleeves. But when he'd arrived to find two other docs sitting on their asses—one for an entire year—and actually had to deal with House on a daily basis...well, there was something to be said for having a less prestigious job under a more bearable boss. However, he'd fought hard to get where he was now and he wasn't going to let House's inability to function around others ruin his career. And he sure as hell wasn't going to be implicated in any lawsuits that arose from House working this week.

What had Cuddy been thinking? Foreman had seen women enter dick measuring contests before, but he'd never seen any woman actually win one. Her balls must be the size of Texas and Alaska combined. A heavy load to carry around everyday. To him, that kind of childish behavior was fine as long as it didn't interfere with work, but this, this was not only at work but it was initiated by the head of the hospital herself! And the bet. Force a guy who was doing basically okay—not great, sure, but Foreman didn't think there was a time when House had ever been doing 'great,' not to mention actually agreeable or even professional—and take away the thing that makes him okay in exchange for a month off of part of the job he was trained, licensed, and paid to do, and expect what? for things to somehow work out? And yet, despite reality, they pretty much had. So what was House still doing here? And why did Chase and Cameron let him bite their heads off like that? He already knew House needed some serious therapy, but he was starting to wonder about Chase and Cameron….

Foreman had his own reasons for getting into medicine, but as a general rule, he cared about his patients and the people around him. Even the insufferable people around him. He'd been watching House like a hawk all week because even though he knew he shouldn't care and he knew it wasn't his business and that House wouldn't thank him for it, he did care. To a point. That point had been reached, oh, around Wednesday when Cameron had come into the lab furious at House's stubborn insistence on treating for Hep-E and making her compromise her integrity. Then let slip that he'd accidentally broken his fingers.

Accidentally. Yeah. Foreman had snorted then and he snorted again now. How could Cameron be so naive and still survive in the world?

That had been it, the point. House was risking a patient's life for some dumbass theory and Foreman knew exactly what House had been doing when he "accidentally" broke his fingers. Being a neurologist came in handy, he found. So he was concerned. Mostly about keeping the kid alive and keeping his own ass out of trouble, but also about House—only a teeny tiny bit, but it was still there.

He'd known pain. He'd watched his grandfather die a slow, painful death, taking the strongest painkillers he could get and still having pain. But never had he seen anyone actually abuse himself deliberately to divert the pain even when he knew that such a diversion wouldn't last. Mostly because he'd never seen anyone stupid enough to willfully go without medicine they needed to function. House would be an interesting walking contradiction if he were observing from afar, but being stuck in the middle of that walking contradiction's path every day left him annoyed and not interested in the least.

It was a good thing his fellowship would be up in a year and a half. Until then, well, he did what he had done—give the man a dressing down and put his meds back under his nose. For an addict, it would be impossible to resist. And yet, as far as he could tell, House had resisted. Part of him respected House for it but the rest of him thought House was just plain stupid to ask for so much trouble in the first place—and then to stick through it because he was too prideful to give in to Cuddy.

He'd seen House yesterday on the verge of complete collapse. Most people would have stayed home today. And while House wasn't most people by any stretch of the imagination, he'd won, hadn't he? He'd gotten his victory and solved his case and he would win the bet with Cuddy today. So why in God's name would he still be here?

He respected the fact that House could twist logic and rationality to see things from a different angle and that he pushed them to think differently too, but sometimes something was only what it appeared to be and sometimes you needed to stay home and not be a stubborn bastard. He knew Wilson had been watching out for House because that was just part of Wilson's nature. But it was also part of Wilson's nature to let House do idiotic, self-destructive things (like take this bet) because he wasn't good at saying 'no' to people...or maybe because they were sleeping together. Could be anything. Foreman had a hard time understanding why Wilson put up with House's crap. For all he knew, House could be talking smack about women all the time to cover his insecurity about a certain homoerotic relationship. But that disgusted him so he stopped thinking about it. So, whatever the reason, Wilson had been keeping tabs. So why hadn't Wilson pressured House to stay home today? He was back to Wilson not being able to stand up to people—or maybe just to House—again. Circular logic bored him.

Well…he'd already given House the lecture he had to give, but maybe House needed one more lecture. Like he'd listen, but it was worth a try. The idea of scooping his boss off the floor and having to treat him for being a damn moron was none too appealing.

Foreman finished his coffee and went back to the lab to see if the results were in yet.

* * *

"Labs in?" he asked, striding into the room. 

"Yep," Chase said, still on the same crossword puzzle, pencil eraser between his teeth. "You still suicidal? There are easier ways to go, you know."

Foreman rolled his eyes at Chase.

Cameron handed the labs to him and Foreman glanced at them. "Looks good," he said.

"Yeah," Cameron said in a half-defeated, half-annoyed voice. "When he's right, he's right."

Chase continued. "There's being burned to death—the smoke inhalation gets you. You could be covered in honey, left in the desert, and slowly eaten by ants until dehydration and larger animals came after you. You could be slowly dismembered with a spoon, a dull spoon at that—"

"Where do you get these ideas?" Foreman interrupted. "They're totally sick. Have you got bodies buried in your basement that I don't know about?"

"Do you watch television?" Chase asked. "They're not my ideas. You Yanks are the ones who get off on torturing people, taping it, and then watching it over and over again. This entire country would be alot happier if it would just drink more beer."

"Yeah, that and go surfing all the time," Foreman said, rolling his eyes. "Could you be any more of a stereotype right now?" Chase glared at him. "And fixing this country? Yeah, I'll get right on that, right after I bring peace to the Middle East and end world hunger."

"Don't forget a power nap or you'll never make it," Cameron said, smiling.

Well, Foreman thought, at least she's feeling better. He, Chase, and Cameron had gone out just often enough for him to be able to read her, to understand the person she was. She'd be okay. House always got to her and she always came back for more. And that little crush she'd been nursing since he'd gotten here? He didn't know how it would turn out, but he had a feeling Cameron would get hurt alot more before it was over with. Her fault, though, for giving a rat's ass about House. And it would be his fault when House went off on him in a few minutes, because he gave a rat's ass, though the rat and its ass were both very small.

Foreman brandished the labs. "I know what I'm doing," he said.

"Your funeral," Chase said shrugging. Cameron shrugged too.

Great pals they were. Really looking out for him.

* * *

He tried not to rehearse what he'd say as he walked down the hall. It was a poor use of his time, running over in his head what he might say. He preferred to wing it in this type of situation. 

He approached the glass walls of House's office. House looked like he was either thinking really hard and staring at the window or asleep. Foreman tapped on the glass and looked away in case it was the latter.

Inside, House started out of sleep at the knock. He felt woozy and stiff from having slept for a while. His body demanded that he sink back into sleep but his brain overrode it and he turned the chair around. He really hoped that it wasn't Wilson catching him napping. But he couldn't think of anyone he actually would want catching him napping. It was Foreman. Great. Just what he needed.

Foreman looked in again and saw House facing the right way, looking sleepy and pained. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

"What are you doing here?" House asked, words slightly slurred.

"New round of labs," Foreman said. "Kid's looking good."

House gave him the 'you're an idiot face.' "And it takes all three of you to tell me that? I thought you had more sense than to bother me when the patient is fine."

"I thought you had more sense than to come in on a day when you can't contribute anything and all you'll do is lay around lazily," Foreman said. "Why aren't you at home?"

"That doesn't answer my question," House said. "Did Cameron and Chase get the idea that I didn't believe them when they said the kid was okay, or did you just feel the need to confirm it with me and cover your ass as the older, more respectable doctor of the bunch?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Suddenly I can't update you on the kid's condition?"

"Suddenly you care enough to tell me to go home?" House responded.

Foreman ignored him. "We found termites last night," he said. "Thought you'd want to know."

"Here you go again, telling me things I already know," House said. "Does it make you feel big to tell people what they should be doing? It makes Cameron feel good about herself, but you already feel good about yourself, so it must make you feel big."

Foreman shrugged. "Just thought you'd want to know," he said.

"No, you didn't," House replied. "You wouldn't want to give me the satisfaction." He paused and looked contemplative. "So you came all the way down here from the lab to tell me to go home? Aww, Eric, I didn't know you cared." He paused. "But I don't swing that way."

"Not everything is a sexual come-on, you know," Foreman replied. But I suppose you wouldn't know that, he added to himself.

"It isn't?" House said in mock confusion. He threw his right hand up in the air in a gesture of defeat. "I've wasted my life," he said. "Thank you so much for telling me before it was too late."

Foreman didn't move, didn't crack a smile, didn't flinch.

"I'm fine," House said. "Go help Chase with his crossword puzzle."

"Chase is in the clinic," Foreman said tightly.

"No, he isn't," House said. He looked at Foreman and acted hurt. "Why would you lie to me like that? I thought we had a rapport going."

"Why are you here?" Foreman repeated.

"Did you and Cameron switch brains this morning?" House said. "I'm fine."

"Go home," Foreman said, punctuating the words as he turned to leave.

"What're you gonna do," House called after him, "tell the teacher?"

Foreman just shook his head and let the door swing shut behind him.

House watched him leave and then pinched himself to see if he was dreaming. Foreman coming to him like that? _Foreman?_ _—Foreman!—_

But he was too tired to think much about it. He sat back in his chair. Sleepy as he was, he didn't think he'd get back to sleep now. He hurt too much. He cursed Foreman for interrupting his nap. Next it would be Wilson—or even Cuddy, the way this day was going.

He was actually a little surprised that he hadn't received a visit from the Boy Wonder Oncologist yet. Maybe he'd finally realized what was good for him. Whatever.

House turned on his portable TV and got the reception straightened out. He tried desperately to keep his mind on the plot lines and off of any other topic. He was still tired, though, from the pills and the spasm, so when he felt himself start to drift in the wake of the episode before him, he let it happen. Three and a half hours to go. He'd make it. He'd definitely make it. No question. He'd make it.


	19. Day Five: Tonto Pays a Visit

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** All the new chapters aren't really new chapters. I hope no one got their hopes up when they saw that. Sorry, sorry! This is the only new chapter. What I've done is gone back and edited things and split some of the self-contained earlier bits into two or three chapters where there was only one chapter before. So, ah, sorry if anyone was startled. On with the show, shall we?

* * *

_"I'll tell you what,  
__I'd get up  
__If I knew I fell."_

—Queens of the Stone Age, "Leg of Lamb"

Wilson wasn't having the best day.

House had made it abundantly clear this morning over the phone that he did not want to be bothered today and Wilson couldn't blame him. House hadn't had a week this bad in a long time. He was going through something extremely painful and worse yet, he was going through it in public, in front of everyone. So Wilson understood that his friend wanted time alone.

If he didn't know him so well, he'd have guessed that House would stay home today. He'd nearly suggested it over the phone this morning before he remembered that that was exactly what House didn't want to hear from him. But he could be forgiven, he thought; he wasn't at his best at all today. Something about learning that Julie was cheating on him again unnerved him. No matter how many times it happened, it would always hurt. He could really use a little time with House to take his mind off of it.

He'd checked on him this morning in his usual surreptitious way: a quick walk in front of his office and a glance inside usually told him all he needed to know. Today was no different. He'd made a pass after rounds and glimpsed House enthralled in something on his computer. So House had made it in and wasn't passed out anywhere. That was good enough.

Wilson had gone back to his office and tried to settle into some paperwork. When that didn't work, he dropped by the oncology lounge and spoke to some colleagues—a few words about a particular patient, general talk about sports, plans for the coming weekend, conferences, national news items. He maintained a good working relationship with everyone under him, but he was their department head, their boss, and some topics were simply off limits if he wanted to maintain professionalism. He went out with them occasionally for drinks and he considered some of them friends, but he couldn't come in to the onc lounge, fairly brimming with the knowledge that Julie going behind his back, and expect to comfortably broach the topic with anyone.

They all knew his reputation. Some ignored it; some gave him high fives; but however seriously they took it, they didn't let it show. Not really. He'd made a rule when he accepted the position as department head that he'd never pursue anyone in his department—it was unprofessional to say the least—and he'd kept that rule. But people talked; people always talked. The news that his wife was cheating on him would probably get back to the onc lounge in a week or so. He couldn't bring it up until it got back to him. Not with his staff anyway. Not with anyone who worked under him.

That left House and a few other friends from different departments. But those other friends—even with them, he didn't drop by their offices routinely to shoot the shit. Not on a Friday morning, anyway. Friday afternoon, maybe, but not Friday morning. And he needed some space between finding out and processing it before he brought it up with anyone else. House, though...House would look at him and just know. Well, maybe he wouldn't today, not after this week. House needed space too. So Wilson found himself prowling the halls, unable to keep his thoughts in check, unable to sit still and push papers.

He made another turn around the floor and realized that a department head pacing his floor was starting to look suspicious. House could pull that off easily: he didn't give a damn what people thought of him. But Wilson did give a damn, he very much did in fact, and it wouldn't do to look scattered in front of the staff.

He stopped by his office and sat, shifting idly through the papers on his desk. He still couldn't concentrate. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and rubbed his face with his hands. Maybe it had been the perfume. Perfume that was never meant for him. He didn't change his cologne, after all. It was never about betrayal or revenge for him. It just sort of happened. He was nice. He was a sucker. It was almost a reflex, it was that unconscious. ...well, there had been that green tie, but it had been a gift, he hadn't bought it himself to impress...whoever it had been then. He never meant to hurt Julie, though he knew he did. She was human; how could she not be hurt, even if it was just a little? He still loved her and cared about her. They were just...distant. The marriage was rapidly approaching n-stage. But, God, he didn't want to think about it.

He checked his watch. A little early for lunch, but it was clear that he wasn't going to get a thing done, so why not be a little early. As much as he didn't want to think about it, he needed someone to know. Just to know. They didn't have to talk about it. But he didn't want to keep it bottled up inside any longer.

He headed for the fourth floor.

He passed Foreman in the hall on the way.

"He's all yours," Foreman said.

Wilson turned to question him but Foreman kept walking.

Well. Good to see that House was his usual cheery self.

Wilson didn't knock, didn't pause at the door. He went right in and plopped into the chair next to House's desk. He made a point to avoid looking at House: it was something he knew House would appreciate. Wilson rubbed his face again. He hadn't slept well after Julie woke him up.

House jerked out of his daze and saw Wilson sitting across from him looking like crap. He could tell right away that something was bothering him. Something big. Wilson didn't sulk like this. So what was it...

Patient? Could be. Wilson hadn't said anything, but they didn't talk much about patients in general. He knew that Wilson took it hard when someone he'd been treating for a long time finally bit it. That didn't seem right, though. It was deeper than that.

He looked closer.

No, definitely not a patient. Not his parents or brother, either.

He squinted.

Not even one of his extramarital affairs.

That left only one option: Julie.

He looked again.

Yep, that was it. Julie. Again.

Wilson was staring off into space.

"Who is it this time?" House asked, annoyed at how dazed he sounded.

Wilson didn't jump and didn't look at him. He'd been expecting this. This was all he really wanted. Just this: knowing, understanding. Mutual existence.

"Don't know yet," he answered.

He stretched, still not looking at House. He could tell from the corner of his eye that House wasn't doing that great. But then, Wilson hadn't exactly expected him to be doing that great. He looked...okay. Sleepy. Which was fine. Wilson was sleepy too.

He yawned and stood up.

"Want some coffee?" he asked.

"Yeah," House said.

Wilson picked up House's mug and went to the conference room to see if any coffee was left.

While he was gone, House watched the characters move around on the screen. He'd missed an entire week of soaps and despite the fact that he'd caught up online earlier, he wasn't awake enough to really follow the various and sundry plots. It gave him something to look at, though, and the appearance of doing something when he was only ever half watching at the most. TV. Where would he be without it? Watching paint dry probably.

He saw a boom mic in one of the shots and wanted to snicker but he was too tired and achy to use up valuable energy by stretching the muscles around his mouth. Every time a bad spasm hit him, he was pretty well wrecked for the day unless he had some very good reason to press on. But no one was depending on him right now, so he didn't have anything to distract him from how he was feeling. Add everything else from the week on top of the spasm and he wanted to curl up into a ball and die. However, the situation being as it was, he'd take the cup of coffee Wilson had offered him.

Wilson returned with that cup of coffee and moved his chair to sit next to House and watch the soap. They sat quietly, each sipping his drink, and watched the screen.

After a while, House said, "You found out last night?"

He saw Wilson nod slightly out of the corner of his eye.

"The book club," House said.

"Yeah," Wilson replied. "Should have seen it coming."

"Duh," House said quietly. Nothing he could say could help the situation. Rather, almost anything he didn't say would help more than the one or two things he could only reiterate at this point—things Wilson already knew and had known for years—things that wouldn't get him anywhere. But hang on.

"Wait a second," House said. "Didn't you mention this earlier? A few days ago?"

"It was only a suspicion then," Wilson said.

"Oh," House said. "All these women are rubbing off on you. You're getting woman's intuition. Better be careful or you'll start menstruating."

But the tone wasn't right. He sounded tired to himself and Wilson's expression didn't even change. Now may be the time to shut up. But when did he ever know when to shut up, or, more to the point, when did he ever _actually shut up _when it was time to shut up?

"How long?" House asked.

"I don't know," Wilson said, staring blankly ahead. He sounded hollow and dead.

House knew why he took it so hard, but he didn't understand it. The difference between knowing and understanding was measured in miles for him when it came to Wilson and marriage. He made snide remarks and attended the occasional party where he tried to be civil to Julie, but on the whole it was a huge mystery to him. It wasn't, however, a mystery that kept him up at night. That is, it didn't keep him up unless he had to listen to Wilson snore after another drunken 'she's cheating on me' binge. Relationships. Who needed them when there were hookers? All of the fun, none of the mess.

"Are we coming up on the tenth time or the fifteenth time?" House asked, trying to sound more playful, or at least less exhausted. "What should I get you?"

"How about a big glass of shut the hell up?" Wilson said, starting to come out of himself a little.

"No, no," House said, "I'm saving that for the twentieth time. I'd get you a card and a gift certificate to Hooters but I don't think Hallmark recognizes this occasion and the food at Hooter's will kill you." He paused, thinking. "What about a strip club and alcohol poisoning? Or is that too passé?"

"We always do that," Wilson said, mock-whining. He was beginning to feel better. Yep, this was what he'd needed.

"A pony?" House suggested, glancing to his right at Wilson.

"What would I do with a pony?" Wilson asked, turning to look at House for the first time.

House shrugged with his good arm. "I don't care as long as you don't try to screw it," he said. "We'd have to staple your nuts back on with a nail gun."

"Nail guns don't use staples," Wilson replied. "It's a little early in the day to mix your metaphors, you know."

House shrugged lopsidedly again. "All the same," he said. "Do you have any idea how hard those things can kick?"

"Is this your not-so-subtle way of coming out to me about your bestial preferences?" Wilson said, trying to look appalled and failing, breaking into a grin instead, "Cause I really need lunch and a few beers first if you are."

"Who said anything about bestiality?" House said innocently. "I thought we were talking about staple guns?"

"You did," Wilson said. He paused. "You have a sick mind, did you know that?"

"Hey, I'm not the one fucking the pony here, Tonto," House replied.

"You _really_ need to get out more," Wilson said. "I mean _really_."

"And you _really _need to shut up," House said. He nodded toward the TV. "She's about to come out of the coma."

Wilson turned to the screen and then back to House. "Whose baby is she having again?"

"That was a dream," House said.

"Well then-"

House shushed him.

They watched the scene. Wilson finished his coffee as the credits started. He stood and stretched.

"Lunch?" he asked.

"I sent Cameron down for something," House said, still watching the screen, mug still full. He was awake enough, he thought. He wasn't keen on getting all jittery again.

"Uh huh," Wilson said skeptically, trying to determine whether House was lying or not. "What was Foreman angry about earlier?" he asked.

"He just found out that Biggie really did shoot Tupac," House replied, looking up at Wilson, a serious, almost caring expression on his face. "He needs some time to adjust."

Wilson moved the chair back to the conference room, shooting House a 'whatever' look as he went.

"Basketball tomorrow night?" Wilson asked when he got back.

"Who's playing?" House asked without looking up. He watched the opening credits of All My Children run.

"Syracuse and BC," Wilson replied. "Should be good."

"Just college?" House asked, trying to look more involved.

"You hate the NBA," Wilson said, brows furrowing.

"But I like to have choices," House said. "Spice of life." He shrugged. "And who can forget the Pacers/Pistons fight. Never know when some coked up hood getting three million a year is gonna throw the shit down."

Wilson shook his head, showing outward disapproval but smiling to himself. House seemed okay. He seemed better than okay, in fact. The knot of worry that hadn't left his stomach in days loosened.

"Eight?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged. "Sure. Who doesn't want to see Jesuits get pounded. Usually it's the other way around."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Okay," he said, smiling, and left, feeling much better.

House waited a minute to make sure Wilson wasn't coming back and then let himself slump in the chair. That had gone well, he thought. Julie had impeccable timing.

He moved the TV to the bookshelf, stretching his leg out and leaning back in the chair. The conversation left him feeling like mush and he wanted to do was sit and be quiet and maybe go back to sleep.

He hoped he'd look busy to anyone who came to his door. Cuddy was the only one who hadn't bugged him yet today, so he figured he was due for a visit. But maybe she'd be merciful and leave him be for the next, oh, say, three hours. The commercial break told him it was about 12:13. Three hours. Just three more hours.

He cradled his left hand in his lap and shifted around until he was as comfortable as he'd get. He closed his eyes and listened to the television buzz in the background.

* * *

**A/N cont':** Glad you guys liked the Foreman stuff. Yeah, shame on Foreman for waking up his poor ole boss and bothering him with a big speech. I'm hoping we get more on Foreman from the show soon; he's become the Most Mysterious duck.

Riverflame – Thanks for the kind, ego-feeding words. :) Sorry about the lack of ships, but I'm glad the House/Wilson bits are easy to read into. I wanted them to be, since the show's like that (and because I enjoy the slash myself).

SG Reader (and anyone else) - 'Shipping' is derived from the word 'relationship': cut the 'relation' bit off and you've got 'ship' left, which is a quick, easy short hand for 'relationship'. One could be, say, a House/Cameron (relation)shipper. It's a word that was used a lot in X-Files fanfic and since I grew up on XF fic, I fell into using the word naturally when I started posting here.

Ocecat – Thanks very much. With regard to House sleeping with someone/anyone, I saw a pairing the other day that I think should go at the top of this fic: House/Vicodin. So this would be a fic wherein House and Vicodin have a big fight and don't speak to each other for a whole week and poor House, he's all wrecked over it, and then they kiss and make up and live happily ever after until the next fight. Gonna be a little while before it wraps up, though, because I can't just stop at House and Wilson's little spat at the end of the episode. I've got 10,000 words written for the post-spat period so far and there'll probably be another 10K or so before it's all said and done with. So, a bit left. :)

To the regulars—bree, Merrie, benj, dontuwanako, LEoL—ah, thanks, I love you guys. Cheers!

Everyone else, I love you guys, too! Thanks for making this fun to write. :)


	20. Day Five: Better Living Through Chemistr...

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

* * *

**Day Five: Better Living Through Chemistry**

_The blue pill opens your eyes  
__Is there a better way?  
__A new religion prescribed  
__To those without the faith  
__A hero holding a knife  
__And blood is not enough  
__Is it too late to go back?  
__Is it too late to go?_

—Queens of the Stone Age, "Better Living Through Chemistry"

Somehow or another he managed a state of semi-consciousness for the better part of an hour before the Benadryl began to wear off and he began to think and feel at full tilt again.

The ache in his body was unbelievable. The actual pain wasn't as bad—he was building up a tolerance for it—but the persistent ache that made him long to be immersed in a large tub of hot water with only a straw to breathe through and some light jazz piped in to keep him from getting bored—the ache was simply too much.

He heaved a heavy sigh and moved his leg from the bookshelf where it had been propped up to the floor, gasping a little as circulation was restored. It had fallen asleep. Gravity tried to pitch him forward out of the chair to follow the dead weight of his leg as he tried to carefully put his foot on the floor. Prickles of pain tingled up and down his leg, mixing with the feeling that ants were crawling just under the surface of his skin, and he grunted and set his teeth. He leaned forward, half bent in the chair, elbow on the armrest and head in his right hand. Miserable. But at least he didn't feel nauseous. Or, at least, nowhere near as nauseous has he had been for most of the week. There was quite a lot to be said for that.

He was thirsty, he realized, and wanted something fizzy and caffeinated. He normally did a good job of grazing out of the fridge in the conference room—Foreman _still _hadn't learned that labeling his foodstuffs only made House take them more often, even when he'd prefer something else, just to piss him off (no amount of trying to disguise his handwriting, leaving threats, or cajoling Chase or Cameron to write a label for him made any difference whatsoever because House had already broken Chase and Cameron of the habit, so there was no one left but Foreman to label things; Wilson had learned long ago that any fridge House had ready access to wasn't a safe place to store things one wanted to eat or drink later, so he was also out as a labeler)—but he hadn't rummaged through the fridge since Monday morning. And now it was Friday: the good stuff was probably all gone because for all he knew, they actually ate the food they brought in and kept there, and because the fridge was usually empty by Friday afternoon. The only things that were still there Monday mornings when he got before everyone else were Cameron's cans of Diet Coke. Normally, he'd have no second thoughts about snagging one, but Cameron had been acting a little weird around him lately and he sensed that now wouldn't be the best time to help himself. He didn't really like Diet Coke either. Aspartame was just this side of insidious. And it tasted like crap. So fizzy was out. He imagined there was coffee left, but it would be cold and/or sludge by now. That left water. Tap water at that. But he was thirsty.

He slowly picked himself up, left foot planted, grabbing his cane which had been leaning against his desk in a suspiciously handy spot (that was funny—he remembered dropping it on the floor—weird), getting himself vertical, and starting toward the conference room with his shoulders hunched and the rest of him contracted, trying to ball up even as he walked. He had the posture and gait of an 80 year old rheumatoid arthritis patient. Thanks, Lisa, thanks.

He eventually made it to the sink and got a cup and some water. He hissed as his fingers protested loudly when he gripped the cup and started back to his office. He was so tired.

He headed for the yellow lounge this time, not even bothering to collect his TV on the way. He was just too tired. He put the cup down and eased himself into the chair. He got his feet up, right leg stretched out comfortably, pins and needles mostly gone now, and leaned over to retrieve the water before he leaned back. The water was cool running down his throat, just what he'd needed. He wanted to drink the whole cup at once, but some small voice in his head said that that wouldn't be the best idea, and, amazingly, he followed its advice, setting the cup back down. He leaned back now and let physics take him, trying to relax all of his muscles, hoping to make the next two hours as bearable as possible. He needed more than he had at his immediate disposal for that, but as it was, he'd try his best with what he had.

* * *

Some time later he jumped, adrenaline shooting through him, aware of things again. What? Had he fallen asleep? Must have.

He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed.

He resisted the urge to groan. He felt like he'd been out of it for hours when it was only fifteen minutes. Only fifteen minutes. His leg was starting to hurt again, breaking out of the generalized ache that had consumed him. He took two more IB caplets and a swallow of water and lay back again. One-thirty. One hour and forty-five minutes to go. He tried to relax all of his muscles, now that the adrenaline had worn off. He closed his eyes, relaxing, and felt himself start to shake. He relaxed into the shaking, too, not trying to fight it. Pathetic, but what could he do.

He dreamt, on and off, of nothing in particular. Jerks from his leg and noises from outside woke him every fifteen or twenty minutes and he would open his eyes half-way, wonder what was going on, and slide back into dreams.

He didn't remember them when he finally did wake up, feeling better, more relaxed, though still achy. His blood sugar was hovering around zero again too. Not good. But the cafeteria was a long way away and so were the vending machines and he just didn't feel like an excursion. If he were feeling more like himself he'd snag a med student or an orderly and send them downstairs.

He checked his watch, both hands shaking. Two forty-five. Half an hour. Only half an hour left. That gave him ample time to go downstairs and get something to drink before he saw Cuddy, because if he didn't, he had a sneaking suspicion he would pass out in her office and find himself confined for the weekend. _Not_ what he wanted.

So he hauled himself up, snorting and wincing, swaying when he finally made it up. He got his footing and steadied himself, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket. He made sure he had his wallet and started out the door, leaning heavily and moving slowly.

The elevator did its usual thing to his stomach, but he paid it no attention. He got off on one and headed for the vending machines. He bought a Sprite and a handful of candy, and, not wanting to go back upstairs and come back down, he took a seat next to the nurses' station outside the clinic and started surveying the patients as he sipped his drink.

Friday afternoons usually saw a drop-off in patients, but it was flu season and the waiting room was mostly full. He chomped on the candy, so happy that he'd taken the bet. He'd done it. He wouldn't have to look at this again for a month. A _month_. He couldn't believe she'd gone up to a month. It was going to be such a sweet month. His Vicodin back, no whiny patients, only taking the cases he wanted to take, back on a steady diet of doing what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. Sweet freedom. The week had been ungodly, but he didn't want to dwell on it. It was over and done and he was going home in a few hours to a relaxing night of beer and pizza and TV. Thank _God_ it was Friday.

He sipped the soda, stretching his leg out. The fizz felt good in his stomach and it was good to chew on something. Five minutes past three. Ten minutes to go.

He started counting the seconds. He had five pieces of candy left. One every thirty seconds would get him part of the way through that. He watched parents talking to their children, a variety of people by themselves reading magazines or looking around, most of them not looking too sick. Fever, runny nose? Orange juice, Tylenol, and a day in bed.

Thirty. He popped a candy in his mouth and chewed it slowly.

One of the kids started crying and its mother fussed over it. He _definitely _wouldn't miss that. The parents part of it. He'd have gone into peds if it wasn't for the parents. Sick kids made great patients. They understood that pain wasn't good and were willing to work with you to fix things. No lies, no manipulation, no ulterior motives. Parents of sick kids, on the other hand, were the worst people on earth and he wanted nothing to do with them.

Thirty. Another candy.

If he were smart, he'd have gone into immunology or virology or any of the specialties that didn't involve patients. But the truth was, pathogens just weren't as interesting on their own. For the most part, they were the whole puzzle presented straightforwardly, waiting to be solved. But anyone could solve one of those. They didn't present him with a challenge. They were, in a word, boring. But stick one in a human and add all kinds of other complicating factors and maybe, just maybe, he'd be interested.

Thirty. Another candy.

But this clinic stuff? Not nearly as interesting as a sample of virus in a lab. Totally uncomplicated. Okay, he did have to admit that there were those rare cases that were slightly more complicated than usual, but if it was something he was interested in, he'd take it when it came to him or (rarely) he'd seek it out. And there were even rarer cases where people weren't idiots and shit happened to them and they took it well to a point and then they were fed up and ready to just die. Like Wilson's "cousin" with the tapeworm. Before her, he hadn't discussed his leg with a patient...ever, really. She got it out of him, though. Because she had a damn good case for giving up. He had had a damn good case for giving up. And she would've died if he hadn't taken her case, if Wilson hadn't lied to him. He forgot that Wilson would do that from time to time. In a way, he liked it. It made things less predictable, more fun, more interesting. Better.

Two minutes. Two minutes had passed. He popped the other two pieces of candy into his mouth and worked on the Sprite.

Wilson, Wilson, Wilson. The cheater is cheated on again. He imagined he could expect a late-night visit some time in the near future. Wilson's phoenix-like production of death and resurrection whenever he figured out that Julie was going around with someone else was always something to watch. House knew each stage and he could pinpoint the amount of time each would last. But he liked it when Wilson came over, distraught, and they drank and talked about nothing all night. It was fun. It allowed him to unleash his wit on an appreciative audience and get wasted at the same time. They understood each other pretty damn well by now. But House didn't like to think about it much because it made him stray into emotional territory that he didn't understand and didn't really want to understand, because it involved him and his emotions. Other people's emotions, he didn't care. When his were involved, he looked the other way until whatever brought them out blew over. He didn't think about it.

Two and a half minutes. He'd drunk half of the Sprite but his stomach was starting to hurt, so he gave up on it.

He sat for a little while longer, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then got up carefully. He threw the can away. He'd gotten a few suspicious looks from nurses, but no one had asked him what he was doing. There were benefits of being the resident eccentric, that was certainly true.

He checked his watch. Three thirteen. Finally. _Finally_.

He started walking toward Cuddy's office. Finally. He hoped she wouldn't make a big production of it.

He spotted the Vicodin bottle on the edge of her desk the second he entered the room. He turned his attention away from it, refusing to let her see him acknowledge the hunger he had, the need, and focused on something else instead. That something else ended up being her. Sitting there all safe and sound, like an embattled general at the back of the lines. He'd just broken through.

She'd heard him approach. He made a unique thumping noise, though whether it was on the floor or in her head, she didn't quite know.

"Well," she said, not looking up from her paperwork, "Mr. Foster has decided not to sue. You should be grateful."

House didn't say anything. He didn't want to play the game.

She chose that moment to look up at him. She was smug. What did she have to be smug about?

"He was so happy to see his son improving that he forgot entirely about you," she said, "and your infantile behavior."

"As I recall," House said tiredly, "_he_ took a swing at _me_. I can prove it," he said and flicked his tongue across his split lip.

"Yeah," Cuddy said flatly, "right after you'd boxed him into a corner."

"It's _my _fault he's no good at Chicken?" House asked innocently.

"It's your fault for playing games in the first place," she countered.

"What?" he said dryly, "are you going to tell me that I started it? That I'm the bully here? That I kicked sand in his face first? Nuh-uh. You're not pinning this one on me." He paused, looking squarely at her. "You're lucky he didn't sue," House said. "You're the one who'd be hung out to dry, not me."

"Be that as it may," she said, a little flustered, "you need to stop jerking the patients and their families around. I thought it was the meds, but now I think it's just you."

House rolled his eyes. "_I_ could have told you that on Monday," he said.

"I wouldn't have believed you Monday," she said coolly.

He felt himself getting very annoyed. He didn't have to check his watch to know it was a good two minutes past time.

"And you believe me now? What, because I'm clean now? Yeah," he said, exasperated, "taking my meds away has _really_ changed my behavior. If you want to see a real change, keep idiots out of my path. But wait. Even I think that's an unreasonable request."

She didn't say anything, the same cat-like expression on her face that said she had all the time in the world to extract what she wanted from him.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said finally, leaning heavily on his cane and allowing himself to look tired now, "it's been a week. I believe you owe me two things. No, wait, three things."

She shrugged. "Well, you did it," she said, trying to sound annoyed that she'd just lost a bet when she had in fact just won a much bigger battle. At the very least, this was a start.

She nodded toward the bottle. "They're all yours," she said.

He snatched the bottle, trying not to look too desperate.

"I'm going to take this now," he said, shaking a pill into his palm. "There's a hooker in my office and the meter's running."

He popped it into his mouth and bit down, sucking on it like it was candy. It tasted acrid in his mouth. He'd really missed that taste.

"Swallow it," she said as she watched him. "Don't chew it."

"Wha?" he said around the pill, sucking on it. "You wouldn't give a man dying of thirst a drink of water, would you?"

"You're not dying," she said.

"Easy for you to say," he said, still sucking on the pill fragments.

"Swallow it now or I knock a week off," she said.

"You got some water?" he asked. Anything to buy time and get it into his system faster.

"You don't need any water," she said, eyeing him.

"I'm out of practice," he replied.

"Now," she said.

He rolled his eyes and swallowed it, then opened his mouth and moved his tongue from side to side to show her it was gone. "There," he said. "Satisfied?" _Women_.

"Yes," she said softly. She didn't mean to be so hard on him. It was just that she'd been watching him for years.

In the beginning, he'd struggled. Everything he did was a struggle. She knew he hated the way people looked at him. He hadn't been there too long before he started dodging the clinic. He'd either hole up in his office or stay home all together, saying he was sick or that the pain was too bad. It hadn't taken her long to realize what he was really saying: _I hate this. I want my life back. Why? Why did they screw it up?_ And she knew that was why he kept struggling: so no one else's life would be screwed up like his had been. To him, the clinic wasn't a place where one's life could get irreparably screwed up, so he didn't see it as being worth his time. His cases, though, _when he took them_, had become long, hard fights. They hadn't been originally. He'd been much more open originally. But when he started getting case after case that were mere misdiagnoses of common ailments (although the word "common" had a very broad definition for him) through carelessness or some other simple mistake, he'd started accepting fewer and fewer of them. He retreated, basically, into himself. He stopped struggling. Wilson kept him sane for a long time, kept him from becoming completely depressed, but even when she promoted him, all but created a department for him, and gave him the budget to get a team together, he didn't come back to life like she'd hoped. She knew him. She knew him now and she'd known him then. She'd known that one day the things he had now wouldn't be enough anymore. That was why he'd started upping his Vicodin intake. Life was easier when you were stoned, but it was no kind of life. So she started prodding him back to his job. Getting him back in the clinic was part of that. This bet was another. She was glad Wilson had suggested it, even though she knew this had been one of the hardest weeks of House's life and she felt for him. But all the same, here he was: he'd started struggling again, pushing to live. This whole week had been a struggle and he'd made it. There was life in him yet. She just hoped that this wasn't too little too late.

"Look," she said, "I know you're in pain. Watching you this week—if you hadn't been here that kid would have died."

"Is this your way of apologizing?" he said, "because I can think of much better ways for you to go about doing that. Fruit basket, blow job, key to the OB GYN lounge, wear that little tennis outfit again—stop me if I hit a good one."

She rolled her eyes and then hesitated.

"No," she said slowly, "I'm saying that maybe you should look into alternatives. I know you've tried-"

"Don't start with that again," he interrupted. "That's how this whole thing began." He paused. "But maybe I could use another month off from the clinic. Whaddaya say?" Oh shit, he didn't just say that, did he? It was the Vicodin talking, the good vibes of having it back where it belonged, inside him. Shit. _Shit_.

She shook her head sadly. "No more bets," she said.

She looked at him. "But now that you're clean, now that you've gone through all that, you're going to go right back to where you were on Monday? This week didn't mean a thing to you?"

"What do you mean, 'all that'?" he said angrily. "It was nothing. I fixed that kid when you wanted to throw me off the case."

"'It was nothing'," she said incredulously. "Did you happen to catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror this week? Jesus, House, you looked like you had one foot in the grave!"

"I did not," he said dismissively.

She stared at him, not taking his bullshit.

"Okay," he said restlessly, "it hurt. What do you want? I found something that works for me, that lets me work, and you honestly think I'll give it up to go off chasing some alternative that I know doesn't exist!"

She tried to keep her tone calm. "New therapies have been developed since-"

"Bullshit!" he shouted. "I've tried them all. This works." He laughed unsteadily, "And because it works you think I should scrap it and try something else? No way. You got your week, I got my month, we're even. Let it go and let me get back to my job."

"Fine," she said softly. "Go."

What? That wasn't right. He felt like he'd lost this...whatever it was. Battle? War? Only she could get his goat like that. _Women_. No. Not women. _Cuddy_.

He turned to go.

"House," she said.

He stopped.

"I don't want to see you here next week," she said.

His hackles rose immediately at her tone and a retort sprang to his lips. But no. That tone meant it wasn't an argument he could win. And frankly, he was tired of arguing. So he'd take it.

He nodded slowly to himself, not turning to face her, and walked out.

He felt the Vicodin start to kick in as he headed for the elevator. It was _sweet_. Oh God was it sweet.

"House!"

Damn, it was Wilson. What did he want this time?

He stopped and waited for Wilson to catch up with him.

"What?" he said impatiently when the other man reached him. He started walking toward the elevator again.

"I want to take another look at your hand," Wilson said, falling into step with him.

House sighed. He wanted to go up to his office, sit down, and revel in the bliss of pain relief. He did _not_ want to turn around to go back to the clinic.

"Can it wait a few hours?" he asked, trying not to sound plaintive. Wilson was seriously harshing his buzz right now. He pushed the button for the elevator.

Wilson gave him a funny look.

"Sure," he said hesitantly.

Great. Now he had that concerned look on his face again.

House sighed. Here it comes. The question. The one he hated so much.

"You okay?" Wilson asked.

"Fine," House said.

Wilson still had that look on his face but the elevator opened and House stepped inside before he could say or do anything else.

The elevator doors closed and he sagged, smile breaking out on his face, really starting to buzz. This was _good_. For the first time in far too long, he felt _good_. Really,_ really _good. The thought was still there in the back of his head, sounding like Wilson: addict, this is what addicts feel.

The elevator stopped on four and he got off.

_This is also what people in pain feel_ _when the pain is gone_, he thought. _Relief_.

So he was an addict. So what. They made the pain go away when nothing else would. He could live with that, being an addict. It was fine. This week had certainly shown him that he couldn't live without them. It was no kind of life to have. And if he was a little high right now, well, it was only fair compensation. He wasn't going to let anyone guilt trip him into not enjoying it.

He reached his office and was pleased to see that the kids had taken his growling to heart for once. Good. He didn't need anyone else looking over his shoulder right now.

He closed the blinds and settled into the yellow lounge. This was one of those times he wished he had a couch in his office, but since he wasn't prone to napping at work, he'd never really seen the need for one. If anything, it would only encourage people to come to his office, sit down, get comfortable, and bug the hell out of him. So the lounge would do just fine.

He leaned back and sighed happily. This_—this _was how it was supposed to be. A little quiet, no interruptions, pain fading into the background. His entire body relaxed. Best of all, the drug hadn't reached maximum potency yet. It would get even better. He sighed again, closing his eyes and letting himself drift. He felt _good_.

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, guys. Thanks for the reviews. Poor House has finally made it. ...but the fic ain't over yet. ;)

dontuwanakno - Thanks. Yep, they way they're ending it...whoa. I couldn't help myself, so I started a fic based on the last scene. (To pimp: it's called Some Days Are Worse Than Others. It's got a rating of M, so it won't show up unless change the display settings to show fics of all ratings. VERY spoilerific, so don't read if you don't want to be spoiled. end pimp). Can't wait to see how they film that last scene, what they keep/cut, that sort of thing. Gonna rock. :)

LEoL - I'm blushing. :blushes: Thanks:)

Cheezit - Thanks. :)

Beth - Thanks. :) BC set up the Jesuit jab so nicely and it was a game that was actually played that day, so it's, um, accurate, so that's why I went with it. I actually go to IU and have filial loyalty to Mississippi State, but IU sucked this year and I can't imagine House and Wilson going for an SEC game over a Big East game. The Orange, though--that I can see. ;) Cheers to WVU!

tpel - Thanks! Are you going to write any more House fics for us? House Cat and House Call were the first two House fics I read, I think. Still wuv em. :)

secretchild - Sorry about that. ffnet doesn't like me all that much. ;)

Cheers, benj, Merrie. :)


	21. Day Five: Life in a Glass House

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** To the FOX writers for the dialogue at the end, which I make no claim to, and to Auditrix for betaing this difficult chapter.

**A/N:** Hi again everyone! No, I didn't forget about this fic. It just got really hard to write all of sudden because I was leading up to the final two scenes of the episodes and I knew I couldn't do any better than what was aired, so I was a little nervous. The saying 'a picture is worth a thousand words' is true in the case of this chapter: words can't express what goes on in those two scenes; you just have to watch them. Nevertheless, I gave em a go and hopefully what came out fits with what's gone before in this fic. Thanks to everyone for being so patient with me. I never expected to get so stalled. And just to be clear, this isn't the end of the fic. More to come. :)

Also, just to be clear about this too, the dialogue starting with 'you made it a week' is FOX's and belongs to anyone but me. Damn fine dialogue, definitely not mine.

Finally, thanks for all the reviews. I really appreciate them. Seems that you guys have high expectations now, which I must admit freaks me out a little, but I hope I can come close to living up to them with this chapter. As always, please let me know what you think and thanks for reading.

* * *

**Day Five: Life in a Glass House**

_Once again  
I'm in trouble with my only friend  
She is papering the window panes  
She is putting on a smile  
Living in a glass house _

_Once again  
Packed like frozen food and battery hens  
Think of all the starving millions  
Don't talk politics and don't throw stones  
Your royal highnesses_

_Once again  
We are hungry for lynching  
That's a strange mistake to make  
You should turn the other cheek  
Living in a glass house_

_But of course I'd like to sit around and chat  
But of course I'd like to stay and chew the fat  
But someone's listening in_

—Radiohead, "Life in a Glass House"

"What did he say?" Wilson asked.

He'd gone back to Cuddy's office after talking to House about checking his hand. He and Cuddy had agreed that she'd try to talk to him first about his addiction. They both knew it wouldn't work, but he knew she had to try and he felt that it was better that House hear it from her first. It would hurt him less that way. So Wilson was here to see how it had gone, though he already knew from how House had acted earlier that it hadn't gone well.

She sighed heavily, standing behind her desk, hands planted on its top, leaning forward. "He said...nothing." She shook her head. "I don't think the significance of it even registered."

Wilson hadn't told her everything about how bad it had been for House. She knew he was keeping a lot back and she would never ask: to ask would be to ask Wilson to breach the trust he had with House and she didn't want to do that. But she knew it had been bad. The list of supplies Wilson had used told her all she needed to know. The physical addiction itself was very bad. Psychologically—well, she'd stopped trying to figure House out a long time ago, but she knew from the conversation she'd just had with him that he felt no compunction about what he did to treat the pain he had, both physical and emotional. And as much as having the department head who took the most risky cases in the entire hospital, had no interpersonal skills whatsoever, and was now a confirmed drug addict made her want to scream, she couldn't really blame him. She'd been there. They'd screwed up. Of all the things she could blame on him, his leg wasn't one of them. He did what he had to do to function and it had become apparent to her that his meds weren't really the problem—that it was his personality—but she still couldn't shake the fact that having him use narcotics to get through the day really bothered her on a personal level as well as a professional level. She still thought he could find something else that would work for him if he'd only try. He could at least admit that he was dependent on them. He was doing some pretty hard work in the denial department to refuse to admit he was addicted after this week. But he'd said it. This week had meant nothing to him.

She looked up at Wilson, eyes softening. "I couldn't push him," she said. "Not after this week."

Wilson didn't see Cuddy vulnerable very often and it unnerved him. He knew Cuddy and House had had something once but he'd never been able to pry the details out of the man and in truth, he didn't really want to know. He had a healthy working relationship with Cuddy and the idea of his best friend boning his boss was the kind of thing that would stray into his mind during a meeting and make him do something totally inappropriate like burst into a laugh or stare at her chest. But past relationships aside, he knew Cuddy had been there for the infarction and he knew it weighed on her more than she admitted. So he understood. But they couldn't let House act like nothing had happened, and House would do exactly that if they let him.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "He needs a push," he said.

Cuddy sighed again. "I know." She looked at him hopefully. This was his territory.

"Okay," Wilson said, "I'll talk to him later."

"Thanks," she said and smiled.

As Wilson turned to leave, he knew they were both thinking the same thing. It was so hard to watch him destroy himself. And it was so hard to intervene. But they had to at least try.

* * *

Back in his office, House dozed, drifting in and out: tired, content, and, in a word, happy. His leg still hurt—his leg would always hurt—but the sharp edge was gone. More than that, he didn't care any longer if his leg was even there or not. Narcotics made it so easy to sit back and not give a crap about anything. God, he'd missed this.

He felt so much better. And as soon as he came down from his extraordinary comfortable position on the ceiling, he'd be going home to food, drink, entertainment, and more of this. More hours of this. More days. More minutes. More of feeling normal again. More of freedom. More of being able to forget. He pretty well enjoyed it, especially that last part. He smiled in his half-sleep.

When he'd first settled into the chair and felt the high kicking in, he'd tried not to think. He'd tried simply to concentrate on feeling good again and relaxing. But the second his nerves stopping pressing pain on his brain, it started working in earnest again, trying to analyze the week, what had happened, what Wilson had done and not done, recalling unbidden the dim, surreal day or so he'd spent in a dark hospital room, hurting from his hair to his toenails, puking up everything he had ever eaten in his entire life, dazed and semi-drugged, Wilson hovering over him all the time.

What did it mean? What? What did it mean? Nothing? Anything?

He didn't know and he didn't care but he couldn't stop his thoughts, his goddamned high-powered surgically-precise brain. That had been the one good thing about this week of sheer hell: at least he hadn't been thinking so much.

But now, even with the Vicodin humming in his blood, tired as he was, he couldn't stop it.

His thoughts wandered back to something Wilson had said a few weeks ago. That the Vicodin had changed him. Well duh. Of course. Time had had a hand in it, too, though, and Stacy— knowing that he'd never have it that good again, not with anyone—that kind of knowledge didn't exactly incline him to try when it came to the opposite sex.

And Wilson should talk when it came to that. To be his age and on your third marriage. Yeah. That was a sign of a mature, well-adjusted adult. Wilson took young, vulnerable, often not-too-bright women the same way House took Vicodin. They were both treating an ailment. House felt that he had at least had shown that he could go without his chemical crutch. He didn't see Wilson swearing off extra-marital affairs. But what really mattered was that he didn't expect Wilson to do that, because it wasn't a problem for him, because House understood that. He accepted it. He didn't expect Wilson to change. He didn't ask him to. So what bug had crawled up Wilson's ass and died?

What House really didn't like was that Wilson was right. He'd tried all week to deny it. But he knew. How could he not know. He was capable of doing the math. He knew exactly how much more he'd been taking recently. Every day he had to do clinic hours, for instance, he was entitled to an extra twenty. And after a while, that extra twenty became part of his routine. The world, after all, was just one big clinic full of whiny, driveling idiots who couldn't be bothered to accept responsibility for themselves, so why should he have to pick up the slack? Why should he feel guilty about doing the best he could to deal with it?

He'd known then that he could get by without the extra twenty, but so much of his life was just getting by. Was it so wrong to want something more than that? And the pills, well, they were easy—easier than picking up some useless hobby—and they were at hand, and he enjoyed his life a little more with them. It wasn't as if he woke up every day and thought, 'Today, I'm going to get high.' It wasn't planned out. And he could survive without them. It was hell, sure, but he could do it. People with a problem, people who were really addicted deep down, they couldn't do that. So yeah, okay, he was addicted, fine, but he could control it. It wasn't a problem if you could control it. As long as it didn't control you—exactly what he'd said to Cuddy on Monday. The pills didn't run his life. His leg did and he wasn't the one who'd screwed that up. It was shit and it had happened to him. What was so wrong with trying to forget that annoying little fact every now and then? What was wrong with wanting something approximate to a normal life?

And besides, millions of people took drugs to have a normal life every day. Just because there was a stigma attached to the one drug that did him any good, he should be the one to blame? Take away their Prozac and Paxil and Zoloft and see how they liked it. They were treating a problem. He was treating a problem. It wasn't a problem to treat a problem, especially when you controlled the treatment. So all of this high and mighty 'you've changed' crap, well, if it made him an asshole for not wanting to put up with it, then fine, he was an asshole. He had no problem with that whatsoever…

He tried to turn off his brain, smother his thoughts. Feeling good, concentrating on feeling good, do that. He tried. Relaxing. Breathing in and out. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet.

…no problem whatsoever. He was an addict. It was what he had to do to feel happiness, and since happiness was the absence of pain, he had to take a drug to feel it. It hadn't been his fucking fault that his leg got so screwed up and it wasn't his fucking fault now that he was addicted to the cure for his pain. He had control. _He_ did. Not the pills. On Wednesday when he'd been so far gone and Foreman had slammed them down on the table and he'd, dammit, he'd given in and taken one—even then, _even then_, when he'd just broken his fingers to feel pain relief, he hadn't let them—the drugs, the pain, the circumstances, any of it—win. He'd recognized what was going on and he'd had the willpower to stop it. That pill had never entered his system. He'd been clean the whole week. Despite everything that had been working against him, he'd done it. And he'd be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy his reward.

Quiet. Quiet. Reward. Control. Resolution. Ending. Finished. Over. Done.

He sighed happily. He'd done it, it was over, he had a full bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, and that made him happy. Content. Not blissful—it would take another pill to get to blissful—but he was okay with that. Happy and content were fine.

He slept.

* * *

Wilson was tired and nervous and ready to go home by the time 4:45 rolled around and he saw his last clinic patient of the day out. That made five cases of the flu in a row. Normally he didn't mind putting in his clinic hours, but today he could see why House hated it so much.

He wasn't in the best mood. He really didn't want to go home tonight. Whether Julie was there or not didn't really matter. Well, no, it did matter. It mattered a lot actually. But even if he knew she wouldn't be there, he still didn't want to go home. He didn't want to face the evening alone in front of the TV.

It was Friday. He wanted to go out. Anywhere at all, it didn't matter. Ordinarily, he'd collect House and they'd go do something—bar, movie, strip club, poker with Wilson's friends (who didn't really like Wilson bringing House because House always cleaned them out), that steakhouse where they had the gigantic 'finish it and it's free' steak (for which House had a record of 3-5), the late-night put-put golf place (the only kind of golf House could stand), sometimes a trip to Atlantic City where House had gotten thrown out for card counting twice at almost every casino, or just rent whatever video game had just come out and play it for hours at House's place, either taking turns trying to play the levels or playing against each other (Wilson knew the code for these too—if it was a racing game or a sports game, House wanted to play against him; if it was a first-person-shooter, House wanted to play the game itself—and he personally preferred the former, since reflexes counted more there, and because House always memorized the layout of the level of a FPS game in no time flat and would sneak up behind him and kill him before he knew what was coming whenever they played FPSers in versus mode and his ego could only take so much abuse)—but he knew that House needed a night in and he didn't imagine House would want him hanging around tonight. They'd spent too much time together lately. Maybe he'd call up some of the guys from Onc or his golf buddies and see what they were getting into. Or maybe he'd just go out by himself and sulk over a few beers, finally going home with someone he'd never see or hear from again. But he didn't want to do that. He felt sleazy enough as it was.

Well, whatever he ended up doing, he'd have to deal with House first. He signed out and started for the stairs, wondering what he was going to say.

The blinds were closed and Wilson didn't see House immediately when he looked through the door. He tapped on it before he walked in. House was stretched out in the yellow lounge chair, eyes closed, looking less pained than he had in a long time.

"Hey," Wilson said loudly enough to wake him if he was asleep.

House started and looked around until he spotted Wilson. "What?" he said testily. Couldn't a guy catch a nap in his own office?

"Come on," Wilson said, motioning toward the door, "I want to take another look at your hand."

House grunted and held his left hand up, looking at it. "Looks fine to me," he said.

"It needs to be splinted," Wilson said. "You want a crooked ring finger or what?"

House shrugged. "Not like I'm ever going to use it," he said and relaxed back into the chair, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere.

"You need it to heal correctly if you want to do this again," Wilson said and flipped him off, trying to grin despite the feeling of having a stone in his stomach.

"Good point," House said and got up out of the chair, stretching as he went. Some Sprite, a handful of candy, a Vicodin, and a nap had done wonders for him.

He limped along beside Wilson down the hall and to the elevator. He was sore and he felt like he could use another Vicodin. No, it wasn't time yet—it wasn't nearly time yet—but he thought he'd cut himself some slack until he got back on his feet. The second Wilson wasn't looking and he could slip one into his mouth...

They made it down to the clinic. House was happy enough with minor buzz he had going and the promise of buzzes to come that he didn't even gripe about having to return to the place he'd just sacrificed a week of good health to avoid.

Wilson ushered him into a room and started pulling the tape off as soon as House sat down.

House winced and complained, "Owww, geez, I thought you were gentle with patients, what happened to that?"

"My patients have all gone home for the night," Wilson said.

"What? You got a hot date?" House said, trying to hop off the table. "Far be it from me to keep you from your daily allowance of tail. I'll take my broken appendage and go home."

Wilson squeezed his hand and got another annoyed "oww!" out of him. "Stay still or you won't get a sticker and the other kids will laugh at you."

"Don't push it," House said, sitting back down. "So what _are_ you doing tonight? Not going home to the little woman, I trust."

"I hadn't planned to, no," Wilson said. He positioned the machine over House's hand. "Wider than that," he said.

House grunted and used his right hand to spread his left fingers wider. Wilson pushed the button for the x-ray. House took his hand back as soon as the machine stopped whirring and flexed the fingers that would flex. Wilson took the film to be developed. House popped a Vicodin the second the door was closed, swallowing it this time, and lay back on the table, right hand behind his head, left hand against his stomach and stretched his leg out. Wilson came back as soon as he closed his eyes.

"Pizza and porn?" House suggested, hearing the door open and close. "Or porn and pizza if we're going to put them in the right order?"

"Maybe," Wilson said, leaning against the door. "You should take it easy tonight." He thought he'd let House rest for a little while. House looked comfortable. And he still didn't know what he was going to say.

"Pizza and porn's pretty easy if you ask me," House said. "We've got another disc of Family Guy to watch."

"I still don't see what you see in that show," Wilson said.

"You're just jealous because Brian's smarter than your dog," House teased.

"Brian's a cartoon character," Wilson pointed out.

"And?" House said. "That makes him less smart how?"

He heard the look Wilson gave him and smiled. Wilson pushed himself off from the door and pulled a splint and tape out of one of the drawers. He rolled a stool over. "Up," he said to House.

House cracked an eye open. "Is this because I insulted your dog?"

"Yes," Wilson said sarcastically, "it's exactly because you insulted my dog." He rolled his eyes. "C'mon."

House sighed and pulled himself up, offering his hand to Wilson. Wilson straightened the finger and House hissed. "Baby," Wilson muttered.

"Why are you splinting it?" House grumbled. "It's fine."

"How is it that, unlike everyone else in the universe, narcotics make you _more_ difficult to deal with?" Wilson griped, trying to take House's hand.

House snatched his hand away. "I'm not difficult. I just disagree," he clarified, acting hurt.

"They're making you stupider, too," Wilson said, "but that's a normal reaction."

House gave him a look. "Wait for the x-ray," he said.

Wilson sighed heavily with annoyance.

"What?" House said. "Why get an x-ray if you're not going to read it before treating the patient? At the risk of sounding like I give a crap, it's a gross misuse of hospital services."

Wilson narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you sure you took a Vicodin?" he asked. "Cuddy could've swapped it with some miracle pill that's turned you into her."

"You wish," House muttered. Wilson gave him a look. "Ohh, touched a nerve did I? She didn't fall for the patented James Wilson Drawer-Dropping Two Step?"

"She likes baby blues and pit-bull personalities," Wilson said. "Which, needless to say, you've got in spades." He paused. "But wait—I'm forgetting something." He rubbed his chin as he was considering the matter, then snapped his fingers and pointed at House. "That's right—you've already got her feather in your cap. Y'know, you never told me whether it was good or not."

"I've told you that three times already," House said. "You've got to cut back on your drinking."

Wilson shrugged. "Maybe it's something I wanted to block out."

"Then stop asking," House said and in his best Jack Nicholson voice continued, "because you can't handle the truth."

Wilson chuckled. "It must have been really ugly if I couldn't handle it." He went to the door. "I'm going to go check on the x-ray," he said. He was half-way out when he stopped, turned, and said, "House." House looked up. "Stay."

House glared at him as he turned to go. "Wilson," House said. Wilson stopped though he knew what was coming and didn't turn around. "Go."

"Talk to the finger," Wilson said, flipping House off as he left.

The door swung shut and House sighed to himself. Ten minutes—twenty tops—and he could shake Wilson for the evening. There was no guarantee that Wilson wouldn't be banging on his door at three-thirty, out of his mind with despair, the second stage of 'She's Done It Again' syndrome, but at least he'd be gone most of the night.

Ah, despair. Yes. House knew all of the stages. He found he could predict the length and severity of each. There was Shock first, which he'd seen earlier today, followed by Despair, Anger, Plans for Retribution, Failure of Retribution and the subsequent relapse of Anger and Despair, Denial, and finally Acceptance. Despair could last anywhere from a few hours to a week depending on how many times the wife in question had done it, how blatant it was, how rough the realization was, when the realization came (if it came at the end of the week, despair gave way to anger more quickly because Wilson had more time to dwell), whether Wilson was worried about losing a patient or something else work-related, and all kinds of other things, down to the time of year (despair lasted longer in the winter) and the time of day he let it slip to House (the earlier he told, the sooner despair was over).

House weighed the factors of this most recent case. He'd give it…30 hours once it really kicked in tonight, which he imagined would be around 6:30. Because all offers of porn and pizza aside, he knew Wilson would go off alone and sulk tonight no matter what either of them said. Despair always started with sulking.

Before House could get any further with his predictions, Wilson came back with the x-ray. He put it on the board and flipped the light on and they both studied it.

"Definitely needs to be splinted," Wilson said. "Which I believe I said earlier." He smiled smugly, picked up the splint, and sat down in front of House.

"Omniscience doesn't suit you," House grumbled, holding out his hand. "Keep your day job."

House hissed as Wilson straightened the finger and splinted it, but with the second Vicodin cruising through his system, he did it more for show than anything else. Wilson would know something was up if he didn't feign some degree of hurt and after the week he'd had, the last thing he wanted was Wilson on his back about the narcs again, _especially_ a wounded, despairing Wilson. The next person who said anything about them to him was going to be picking up pieces of himself from here to Detroit.

Wilson finished with House's finger and House hopped off the table while Wilson gathered up the x-ray and turned off the lights.

Wilson dropped the x-ray off to be added to House's ever-growing file and the desk clerk handed House a letter. House looked at the return address and stuffed the letter into his coat pocket. Wilson watched him curiously.

"What does JAMA want with you now?" he asked.

"It's obviously not important," House said, "or they would've sent flowers and a singing telegram."

"I thought you were going to let Foreman write up Tapeworm Lady," Wilson said.

"You mean your cousin?" House jabbed. Wilson smiled wryly. "Foreman didn't want it. Felt it was beneath his dignity."

"So you did it instead?" Wilson asked.

"Who said I did anything with it?" House said. "When did you develop x-ray vision? And why didn't you tell me? I've been dying to know whether Cuddy still wears those stringy little crotchless panties."

"I have it on good authority that she's switched to thongs," Wilson said as they left the clinic and headed for the elevator.

"Crotchless thongs?" House asked hopefully.

"No," Wilson replied, pushing the button for four. "But they were leopard skin."

"Ooo, wedgie," House said. "Who's your authority?"

"I know a guy," Wilson said evasively. "Actually, she's a girl. Ah, a woman. Cuddy's doubles partner."

House's eyebrows shot up. "Lesbian locker room secrets?" he said. "I like. You have done well, grasshopper. The Force is strong in you."

"You're gonna mix your movies now?" Wilson said.

"You're gonna bitch about it?" House replied as the elevator arrived.

Wilson let him have that one.

They stepped onto the elevator with a clinic patient Wilson recognized from earlier who promptly started sneezing and coughing behind them. They exchanged a look. The elevator stopped on two and the patient got out. Wilson pushed the 'close door' button.

"I finally understand why you don't like the clinic," he said.

"Took you long enough," House mumbled. "Was Sneezy Magee on your shortlist today?"

"He came in around four," Wilson said. "Flu. I don't know why he's still here."

"Obviously he wants a second opinion," House said. "The famous Dr. Wilson can't be right when he says go home, drink lots of fluids, and stay in bed. He's only a renowned cancer doctor and everyone knows cancer doctors don't know the first thing about colds." House shook his head. "No one has any patience any more."

The door opened on three and no one got on or off. House stabbed the button for four again with his thumb. Wilson raised his eyebrows at House and House gave him a dirty look in return.

"You really lucked out on the timing," Wilson said. He wasn't sure if this was the best way to bring the subject up, if it would get him where he wanted to go. God forbid anyone other than Cuddy ask House a direct question and come away with all four limbs intact.

"Just goes to show you that ass-kissing only gets you so far," House said. "You should give betting a try. You stake your new golf clubs, she puts up a few clinic hours, and all you have to do is go a week without looking at or thinking about another woman." Wilson cringed beside him. "So basically, you don't think about sex for a week and you get time off later to think about sex all you want."

"You make it sound so cruel," Wilson said. House gave him a knowing look.

The elevator stopped on their floor and they got off.

That hadn't gone in the direction Wilson had hoped it would. He tried to think of something else as they walked down the hall. Why couldn't he just come out and say it? Why did House have to make everything so hard?

They were nearing House's office. It was now or never.

He still didn't know what to say, so he'd go back to where they'd been: the bet.

"You made it a week," he said.

"And won my prize," House finished, smug smile on his face.

"Congratulations," Wilson said.

"Cuddy's a sucker," House added, grinning, "I would have done it for two weeks off."

"Yeah, it was a piece of cake," he said. It was now. He hoped House remembered their talk from two weeks ago or what Cuddy had said to him on Monday. "You learn anything?" he asked.

House pushed open his office door. "Yeah," he said, as if it wasn't anything at all, "I'm an addict." He turned and went in, leaving Wilson in the hall by himself, floored by how easy that had been and not sure that House realized what he was saying.

He opened the door and went in. "Ah," he said, hands going to his hips, "okay."

House pulled the letter out of his coat, tossing it onto his desk. "I'm not stopping," he said.

So he did remember. So he did know what Wilson wanted to talk about. And from what Wilson could tell, he resented having it brought up at all. "There are programs," Wilson said. "Cuddy would give you the time. You could get on a different pain management regimen—"

"I don't need to stop," House said, the edge of carefully controlled anger slipping into his voice as he shuffled papers on his desk, trying to find something that he knew wasn't there. He didn't realize that it was a nervous habit—that this conversation scared the hell out of him.

Wilson continued, confused and anxious. "You…just…said…" he began.

"I said I was an addict," House said, angry that Wilson had brought this up at all. "I didn't say I had a problem." He paused, then added, "I pay my bills, I make my meals. I function." He tried not to think about how pathetic that sounded, but it was true and it was all he wanted. He only needed to get through the day. It was all he asked for and it was all he expected.

Wilson knew what he wanted to say next. He knew it was a push—that it would bring up an issue House had never been comfortable with and one they never talked about—but it had to be said. It simply had to be said. And he was getting angry himself. House would admit that he was addicted, but he wouldn't admit that his life was shit because of the addiction, that he wasn't dealing with his real problem in a healthy way? That was no admission.

"Is that all you want?" he said. "You have no relationships."

"I don't want any relationships," House spat. Wilson _would_ go there. Bring it—her—up and think he could get away with it.

"You alienate people," Wilson said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact. They both knew it. But it came out meaner and angrier than Wilson really meant it to be and he knew that though House would never let it show, it stung him.

"I've been alienating people since I was three," House retorted flippantly.

"Oh, come on!" Wilson shouted. He'd had enough of this stupid denial that only made things worse. "Drop it! You don't think you've changed in the last few years?"

House sighed. What did he have to do to get Mr. Infidelity out of his office and into the bars crying into a beer where he belonged? Simple: give him a blanket admission that allowed him a way out and would let both of them stop this before it exploded.

"Well, of course I have," he said. "I've gotten older. My hair's gotten thinner. Sometimes I'm bored, sometimes I'm lonely, sometimes I wonder what it all means." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Wilson had hit him and he needed to hit back.

Wilson was shaking his head as House went through the standard litany. House was denying it again.

"No, I was there!" Wilson said, stepping forward as House turned his back to him and faced the bookshelf. "You are not just a regular guy who's getting older. You've changed. You're miserable, and you're afraid to face yourself—"

"Of course I've changed!" House shouted, seething, and slammed his cane down on the bookshelf to punctuate his point. He looked at Wilson as if to say, _How could you do this? You know as well as I do that things aren't the same. Why do you have to bring it up? After everything that's happened this week, this year, these last six years, how could you? You have no right_.

"And everything's the leg?" Wilson said incredulously, softer, not wanting to believe it, not wanting House to believe it. "Nothing's the pills? They haven't done a thing to you?" Bitterness crept into his voice and he didn't try to stop it.

House was cold with rage. How could Wilson do this? How did he have the balls to bring this up? Where did he get off? Yeah, he had been there, so he knew what it was—exactly what it was. Of course it wasn't just the leg. They both knew it, but dammit, it didn't have to be said. There were things they just didn't say and this was one of them. Wilson knew it and he'd done it anyway. Dammit! this was why they didn't fight. It never got anyone anywhere and it always left House feeling like he never wanted to see Wilson again. All this because his slut wife was whoring herself out again? Here he was accusing House of not being able to handle his problems when he was redirecting his anger onto an undeserving target.

"They let me do my job," House said lowly, "and they take away my pain." He looked at Wilson, challenging him, daring him to push one more inch.

Wilson looked back at him. He could tell House couldn't take any more; he couldn't take any more himself. And the truth was, he had nothing else to say.

He looked down and rubbed the back of his neck.

They'd skirted the issue. Again. He knew exactly what House meant when he said 'my pain.' It was as close as he'd get to an admission that he wasn't just using the drugs for his leg. It was never just his leg. It was years of quiet anger, bitterness, being alone, hating himself and everyone around him and right now Wilson had no idea what to do. How could you make a person snap out of a six year emotional coma? He knew one thing now: yelling wasn't the way it was going to get done.

He nodded to himself, anger and disappointment fading to numbness. He didn't know what else to do, so he turned and walked out, feeling dead and leaving House behind him.

Because that was what he did: he walked out. Things got too heavy for him and he ran away. He knew it just like House knew he used Vicodin to medicate his loneliness: it was only ever a gut feeling that he tried to push away or drown in alcohol or outrun or punch until his knuckles bleed.

Because he couldn't deal with it. It was too much. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted it desperately—to go back to when he was happy and newly married to Julie and he knew he'd get it right this time, when House was calling him late at night so nervous and excited about popping the question that he could hear his hands shaking over the phone, back when House teased him for taking bass fishing seriously and they'd play a grueling set of singles or one-on-one to forty points to decide who'd buy the beer that afternoon before the four of them went bowling. None of it was the same. None of it would ever be the same, ever.

But this—this fight he'd just had with House—it would blow over. And he wanted it to, as badly as he wanted anything else, and at the same time, he knew that meant nothing had changed and that the whole week had been for naught. So House now had irrefutable proof that he was physically addicted and he'd admitted to that, but that wasn't what this thing had been about. It had never been about whether he was physically dependent.

House was denying the real problem as strongly as ever and now that he'd proven he could go off the drug and still work—that it wasn't inferring in the quality of his work—he'd never let them broach the subject again. He'd never listen again. And as much as Wilson felt like a failure, he knew he'd done all he could, that at some point it was no longer in anyone's hands but House's. You couldn't just force a person to change. It had to be his choice and House had made it abundantly clear that he was happy with the way things were. If he wouldn't admit to the problem, then there was no problem in his mind. Wilson knew that. House had become a master of evasion; perhaps he'd always been a master of evasion. And no amount of proof was going to change his mind until he was ready to change it himself.

Wilson sighed as he reached his office. It had to be House's decision. That was it. He couldn't do anything else.

He mechanically changed out of his lab coat and put on his overcoat and scarf, grabbing his briefcase. He went down to the front desk and read through the last few charts he had to sign off on before he left for the day.

Cuddy saw him and went through the clinic doors, noting his posture. She'd been waiting for him, nervous and hopeful. He didn't look jubilant. If anything he looked defeated. But she would wait until she asked him to draw conclusions.

"How'd it go?" she asked, coming up behind him as he looked over the last chart he had and signed off on it.

Wilson glanced at her and went back to signing his name. "He admitted he's addicted to the narcotics—" Wilson began soberly.

Cuddy nodded to herself. "Well, admitting you have a problem is the first—"

"—and he says it's not a problem," he said and finished signing the chart, tossing it on the desk. "Maybe it's not," he said. He didn't know what to believe anymore. "What do I know?" He picked up his briefcase to leave.

"What are you going to do?" Cuddy asked, walking out with him.

"Nothing," he said. "I've done enough damage." He felt like such a dog.

"Better hope he never finds out that that was your idea," Cuddy said.

"He'd never believe it," Wilson said.

They walked toward their cars in silence.

That was one thing he liked about having Cuddy on his side: he always got to be the good guy. He'd feel bad about it, but being the bad guy all the time didn't seem to bother her. It was the way she communicated with House, nudging him in the right direction with annoyance and exasperation where Wilson used playful, joking banter. When either of them broke that form of communication, as they both had today with Cuddy expressing real concern and Wilson expressing anger, House got edgy and closed himself off. But the system they used that had worked so well for so long was breaking down. House was breaking down. Wilson knew something was coming. He could feel it. And it was going to be big, bad, and ugly and they might not all make it through.

He laughed sadly to himself. House was right: he _was_ developing woman's intuition. He wondered if Cuddy could sense it too, but he didn't want to talk anymore tonight to anyone.

They reached her car and he said goodnight to her and kept walking.

Away.

Always away.


	22. Part II: Static

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**WARNING:** This chapter is rated **mature** for sexually explicit content (don't get excited—it's not between any of our heroes or heroines). If dysfunctional sex and/or masturbation bothers you, please skip this chapter—you wouldn't be missing anything you couldn't pick up in the next chapter. Summary: Wilson gets laid and House gets his beer and pizza. There's also a bit of violence and some dark stuff but it's on par with what's gone before. Please use your discretion.

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews everyone. :) (This fic still has a ways to go.)

* * *

**Static**

_Language is the liquid  
__That we're all dissolved in,  
__Great for solving problems  
__After it creates the problem,  
__Blame it all on me cause  
__God I need a scapegoat now_.

—Modest Mouse, "Blame It on the Tetons"

_Come on, oh my star is fading  
__And I see no chance of release  
__And I know I'm dead on the surface  
__But I am screaming underneath_.

—Coldplay, "Amsterdam"

After he watched Wilson go, House turned around, facing the bookshelf and stared at it, not thinking, for a moment. His gaze flitted to the right and lit on the mortal and pestle. He gripped his cane with his right hand and felt his left hand twinge at the sight. It ached. So did his leg. The Vicodin didn't really fix that; all it did was make him not care. It wasn't working so well right now.

So Wilson had finally done it. He'd finally pushed him like Cuddy had been pushing him earlier and like he'd been pushing himself all week and, in smaller amounts, for years. The whole week had been a roller coaster ride through hell. It was Friday. It was after work. He was ready to go home and stop thinking. He really didn't need this crap from Wilson, this flaming dog turd on his doorstep at four in the morning that had to be put out and all he had to do it with were his bare feet.

Why did Wilson choose this moment to go for the jugular? What was so hard about letting him go home to pizza, beer, and TV? Couldn't Wilson go off and sulk like he normally did? He had to take it out on House, just because he was angry at his wife for being easy and himself for being a rotten husband? House wanted to hit something or kick something or smash something but he could feel the Vicodin in his blood holding him back, making it easier to do nothing, smoothing the anger that flared in his bones.

He'd already gone through this once today. He couldn't live his life without his meds, meaning he was addicted: he had to have them if he wanted to have a life. And yeah, he was physically addicted, too, but hell, what did that mean. Not a thing. His brain was addicted to having his body's blood supply and his body was addicted to the meds. They needed each other to live. It was symbiosis. That was all. And if Wilson couldn't take it, well, that was just fucking fine. He had his pills back; he didn't need Wilson.

He leaned on his cane, suddenly tired. The week was over, Wilson and Cuddy were gone, and he was finished with them all. The anger he'd felt was gone as well; Vicodin took care of that. The comfortable numbness, the cushion between him and the world, was back. It felt good. It made him feel like he was supposed to feel: cut off, protected from unhappiness by a chemical reaction.

He turned around and looked at his desk again. Labs that one of the kids must have dropped off while he was gone. A reference book opened to naphthalene toxicity that one of them must have borrowed and returned without closing or shelving. He'd be annoyed, but he didn't care. Caring was too hard, too much work. He'd cared about saving that kid and it had landed him in a hospital bed again, being watched over by his nosy best friend who wouldn't just let him suffer in peace. He'd cared about winning the bet and it had gotten him into a fight with both Wilson and Cuddy in the space of two hours. He'd cared about a lot of other things in his life and where was he for it? Nowhere good. Nowhere he wanted to be. Why was it so hard for everyone else to just leave him be? They'd all had their turn at him; now they should do the decent thing and let him go off and enjoy the drugged happiness he had left.

He opened the letter he'd been given earlier and glanced at it. 'We are pleased to accept your article on…' The standard form letter. He noticed there was an extra paragraph at the bottom and skimmed it. A plea to get him to appear at their conference in any capacity—reader, panel moderator, stage prop—anything that would get his name on the program and in the press release. Medicine still loved him. He was still everyone's golden boy and he imagined he could stumble drunk on to the stage at the opening dinner, insult everyone in the room, and take a piss in the palm plant that would undoubtedly be on stage and they'd only love him more. Because they would think, oh, he's having a bad day, everyone has bad days, let's invite him back next year and call him twenty times to see if he got the expensive gifts we sent when he declines. The offers he got from universities worldwide to do a lecture series or spend a semester as a visiting fellow or just appear in a photo with the deans and university president would double.

He seemed incapable of avoiding their adulation. Drop out of the world for a few years? Oh, he must be working on something big. He'll have the cure for cancer when he resurfaces. What's that? he's sick and not taking cases? Let's send him flowers and all the referrals we can find. What? he stopped in the middle of a talk to tell everyone he needed two more Vicodin to get through this and then swallowed some pills? Oh, he's only joking. Or, look at him, he's so strong, working while he's in pain like that, what a hero, what an inspiration to all the little crippled kids who want to become doctors, let's bug him to mentor them after school since he won't take the cases we send to him.

They always thought he was better than he really was, nicer, stronger, a hero, someone to be emulated. It was never 'he's lost his edge, he's not what he used to be,' even though that was much closer to the truth. People always wanted more from him than he could give and among his peers at least, they were very forgiving when they didn't get it. He didn't need their kindness or their understanding or their pity or anything. In short, he didn't need them.

But he knew that wasn't true. Months of lying around watching TV after the infarction had shown him that he could only take so much of doing nothing before he started going stir crazy. He didn't want to admit it to himself, how much he needed patients to keep him occupied, to give him something to think about when he lay awake at night so he wouldn't have to think about himself. But he couldn't deny that it was true.

The second Vicodin kicked in with abandon and he swayed standing over his desk, thought and feeling banished. It was _so_ good, _so _sweet. His eyes slid closed and he moaned. It _had_ been a long time. Two Vicodin hadn't hit him this hard in…he couldn't remember the last time. He needed to lie down and soak it in, all of it.

He gimped over to the yellow lounge and sank down, feeling his body groan at how good it felt. His body was tired and ready to crash for the night though he wasn't too tired to make it home yet if he got up right now, but this felt so good. He didn't want to move again ever. He was building up a serious buzz.

Once he was still, lying back and no longer dizzy from the high, the full force of tiredness hit him and he breathed out, eyes closing, face lax, ready for sleep. The handle of his cane was smooth in his rough right hand and he brushed it against his leg, feeling its familiar contours through the fabric of his jeans, the pale, unhealthy tinge there waiting to ambush him in the shower or any time he forgot for just a second what his life was. His eyes fluttered open of their own accord and his tired, unfocused gaze held the room still yet wavering before him.

So much around him that he didn't want, didn't ask for, too much to be asked to deal with, but his blood was thin again, chemicals washing what he didn't want away and his eyes fell closed, relaxed and medicated, sleep stealing him, and whatever waited on the other side ceased to matter as consciousness faded into the warm, heavy darkness of solid slumber.

* * *

Wilson got into his car and sat, numb, for a few minutes, staring at nothing, brain racing not thoughts but images, sounds, memories, feelings, incoherent, babbling, nonsensical. He breathed fast and hard and angry, steam clouding the window and moistening the steering wheel. He knew only action and inaction right now. Thinking had gotten him nowhere he wanted to be. He knew what he wanted: the past and its simplicity; he knew what he needed: a drink and all the places it would lead him.

His ungloved hands started stinging with cold and he shook himself. Key in the ignition, punching the radio off, turning the heat up, and then more sitting. A vague idea formed in his mind, irresolute, a skeletal outline of where he would go and what he would do. He saw the bar, the smell of smoke and stale beer and humanity, and the women who frequented it, prowling like he was for one night of forgetfulness, and he didn't want the way it would make him feel in the morning, but just as he knew the fastest way to get there, the best place to park, and the graffiti decorating the urinals, he knew he could go nowhere else tonight.

He put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking garage. ATM first, then he drove aimlessly around for a while to settle himself down.

It was seven o'clock by the time he parked near the bar, out half a tank of gas, and put his briefcase in the back seat, tucking his hospital ID into the glove box and checking himself in the rearview mirror. He'd looked better but looks only had so much to do with would happen tonight.

He got a table near the bar and ordered a beer and a sandwich. It was still early and the bar wasn't too crowded yet; time enough to have a leisurely dinner and watch the door. He scanned the bar, drinking his beer, and didn't see what he was looking for. No one at a table either. But it was early, he knew, and the kind of person he wanted wouldn't show until 8:30 at the earliest. Unlike him, she did go home after work and change, maybe even shower, while the men she went out looking for were drinking up the requisite alcohol to have the courage to talk to her. Wilson always knew her when he saw her.

His food came and he ate, watching people trickle in one by one and either look around anxiously or head straight for the bar. It was cold outside and that would slow things down a little, but no amount of bad weather could keep a singles bar down on a Friday night.

He finished the sandwich and a second beer and went to the bathroom, taking his time, on autopilot. Nothing about tonight needed to be planned; the pattern was all too familiar. He didn't think about House or Julie or his brother or his patients or anyone.

He went back to the table and ordered another beer and a glass of whisky, dividing his attention between the door, the news on one TV and a basketball game on another. He drank the whisky quickly and slowly sucked on the beer.

The Nets were down fifteen points when she walked in.

He watched her saunter to the bar, not looking around, not expecting anyone, absolutely in her element. She was attractive enough. He could do better, but she had an air about her that he'd been waiting for. She was after the same thing he was tonight and she knew, like he did, that she wouldn't have to try hard to get it. She ordered a drink and Wilson watched her as he finished his beer, making sure she was here alone and that she was the one he was looking for.

He told the waitress to transfer his tab to the bar and went to the bathroom again, running through his lines as he urinated. He washed his hands and fixed his hair in the mirror, then checked to make sure he had condoms with him and put a breath strip in his mouth, feeling it dissolve on his tongue. One last check—shirt tucked in with the top button undone, tie just loose enough, sleeves rolled up, casual, calm, and collected—and he was ready.

She was still alone when he came back and he thanked his lucky stars for that.

"Another drink for the lady, please," he said as sat down next to her. She looked over at him and smiled. He leaned in. "Hi. I'm Doug," he said.

"Hello, Doug. I'm Marcia," she said and smiled coyly. "Come here often?"

Wilson shrugged casually. "Often enough."

The bartender delivered her drink and she closed her lips seductively around the straw, sipping it slowly, eyes playing over his body appreciatively. "What do you do?" she asked.

"I'm an accountant," he answered.

"What a coincidence," she said, leaning closer to him, placing a well-manicured hand on the bar. "So am I."

Wilson caressed her hand. "But you've got such beautiful hands," he said, "I can't imagine you punching numbers all day. Such a waste." He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it lightly.

She smiled back at him like a spoiled cat, letting him lick one of her fingers, and he knew it would play out like it always did. Ten more minutes of chatting and he would casually ask if she wanted to get out of here and she would casually answer yes and they would go to her place.

Except that someone tapped him on the shoulder while he had her finger in his mouth and he let go, turning around.

A large, desperate, unsteady-looking man said to him, "She's _mine_," and threw a bad punch that glanced off his jaw.

"Michael, no!" she shouted and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him to her. "I told you, we're finished."

"Baby, I've changed," he said and ran his fingers through her hair. He was clearly drunk. She pulled away and slapped him, but he got closer to her. "You'll see—just give me another chance."

Wilson was on his feet and in between them, pushing the guy away. "She said no."

The guy tried to take a swing at him again but Wilson blocked his punch. "Outside," he snarled and pulled the guy with him, tossing a "Sorry" over his shoulder to the woman who had settled back on her barstool and was sipping her drink again, unconcerned.

Wilson drug him down the stairs and out into the street, swinging him around and letting go. The guy stumbled and caught himself, then stared defiantly at Wilson.

"Walk away," Wilson said dangerously.

"She's mine," he growled and launched himself at Wilson, hitting him solidly on the mouth.

Wilson took the punch and hit back hard with his left fist and the guy staggered. Catching himself again, he threw another wild punch at Wilson and missed, falling forward until Wilson caught him.

"Walk away now," Wilson growled into his ear.

The guy pushed Wilson back, propelling himself away, and when he got his feet back under him, he charged Wilson again, arms flailing, and only landed one good blow before Wilson threw a hard yet deftly controlled left-right-left combination that made him stumble to the ground.

"Go now or I will hurt you," Wilson said seriously.

It felt good hitting this guy, getting his anger out, but he wasn't violent by nature and even working in oncology he saw often enough where the losers of street fights ended up. Sometimes the winners, too, but that wouldn't happen tonight. He had this guy seriously outclassed. But he knew that an uneven fight would leave a sour taste in his mouth later, so he gave him fair warning, because if this guy pushed him one more time, he was going to lash out.

The guy was picking himself up and looking like he would try again.

"Go," Wilson said.

The guy yelled something desperate and threw himself at Wilson. This time Wilson didn't hold back, driving him back with blows. He could feel his knuckles bruise as bone met bone and it felt good, satisfying, cleansing. He stopped before he did any real damage and the guy stumbled to the pavement.

Wilson stood over him breathing hard for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, before he bent down to pick the guy up and help him over to a doorway. He was dazed but not unconscious, though he didn't seem to notice when Wilson checked his pupils. Satisfied that he would be fine in a little while and was wearing enough clothes that he wouldn't freeze to death, Wilson cracked his sore knuckles and went back into the bar.

He glanced in her direction to make sure she was still alone—he was _very_ lucky tonight—and veered into the bathroom to clean himself up. He looked okay, not too rumpled or bloody, and smoothed his shirt where the guy had grabbed him, then washed the little bit of blood off of his knuckles and fingers. He dried his hands and went back out.

"Ex?" he said sitting back down next to her. He got the bartender's attention and indicated that he bring her another drink.

"Stalker is more like it," she said smoothly. She noticed his split lip and touched it softly with her thumb. "He got you," she said, wiping a little blood away.

"Barely," Wilson said and caught her hand, kissing it again.

Her drink came and he ordered a beer, sensing it was too soon. A few more minutes of letting her feel like she was reeling him in and then he'd ask.

They chatted about meaningless things, every word drenched with subtext, until she finished her drink. Wilson called the bartender over and asked for the check, then turned to her and said suavely, "Wanna get out of here?"

She gave him a grin the Cheshire cat would envy and picked up her purse. "Call a cab," she said, "I'll meet you outside," and went to the bathroom.

Wilson paid the check and got the bartender to make the call, then went to the bathroom himself for a quick pee and mirror check. He put another breath strip into his mouth, so strong he felt it in his nose, and moved the condom in his wallet to his front pocket. He was ready.

He was outside for a few minutes before she joined him right as the cab pulled up. She was very good at this. Nothing could spoil a night like the awkward pre-sex wait for a cab, especially if it was cold outside.

She gave her address to the cabbie and he had three seconds left on the time-to-kiss-her countdown when her hands were on his chest and she was pulling him down.

Aggressive.

Exactly what he needed tonight.

He kissed her back, long and even, and let her set the pace. She moved fast and was straddling him before he knew it, grinding against him and making him moan into her mouth. She pulled away seconds before the cab stopped and got out while he paid the driver, then he followed her into the building.

* * *

House woke up slowly, his breathing even and deep, body relaxed and full of sleep. He looked at his watch: it was past midnight. He hadn't had a solid, uninterrupted six hours of sleep in so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like. Well, he had slept about that long the other day but only because Wilson had drugged him. He felt anger rise at the thought of Wilson and the drug stamp it out, relaxing his mind as well as his body. So good.

His leg ached, telling him it was way past time for another pill, and he remembered why he never slept more than three or four hours at a time. The double dose of Vicodin after being clean so long, that was it. Ha! What would Cuddy do if she knew he'd not only won his freedom but the best sleep he'd had in months as well! It was indeed sweet.

His cane was still in his right hand—he hadn't moved at all, no dreams, no nightmares, nothing—and he slowly got to his feet, his body stiff despite the drug from being still for so long. He stretched and yawned, then reached into his jacket for another pill. He was getting back on schedule. It felt so, so good.

His stomach burned and he recalled what Vicodin could do to his stomach lining if taken without food and decided he'd be heading home to beer and pizza as soon as possible. He straightened up his desk a little, folding the letter up and putting it in a drawer, but leaving the rest out. He was sure _someone_ on his staff could find time next week to clean up while he was gone. Chase would be able to catch up on his crossword puzzle backlog and Foreman and Cameron could do whatever it was that they did when he wasn't around. Work, probably.

He gathered up his toys, putting them in his bag, and put his coat on, making sure he had his keys and wallet. He'd shut his computer down but…eh, who cared. Light off, door locked, and he was in the elevator. He stopped at the front desk and got the clerk to call him a cab since the buses had stopped running for the night and leaned on his cane, waiting, the hospital sleeping around him. It was nice. Peaceful. Almost pleasant. The clinic was dark. Cuddy's office was dark. No one was whining or complaining. A few nurses were gossiping about something and normally his ears would prick up but since he'd be gone all week, what was the use? And besides, he was still warm and glowing with sleep and well-earned tiredness and he didn't feel like paying attention to anything right now.

He remembered the pizza and picked up the phone at the desk, dialing out to his favorite place which was in part his favorite place because it stayed open until three every night. He ordered the biggest pizza they had with everything on it and hung up. He idly wished liquor stores delivered—he couldn't remember if he had any beer at home or not—and resigned himself to stopping by one on the way home.

The cab showed and he directed the cabbie to a nearby liquor store first, buying a six pack of domestic and a six pack of imported and paying the clerk extra to carry it out to the cab for him since his left hand was still too sore for him to grip the handle of a six pack, even with his finger splinted. He grumbled to himself, thanked the clerk, and gave the cabbie his address, settling back and watching the street-lit town flow by in the curved, tinted window as the Vicodin kicked in.

It was still a rush—not as overwhelming as earlier—but sweet all the same. He knew he'd stop feeling it soon. It would become normal and expected and wouldn't make him heady and high anymore. But he didn't dwell. He felt too calm, too drugged.

He paid the cabbie extra too to carry the beer to his door and then he was alone, letting himself in to his apartment, breathing in the air of home and happy to be alive with beer going into his fridge and pizza on its way. Life wasn't so bad.

* * *

Wilson followed her up the stairs and into her apartment, appreciating her ass wagging in his face.

She jumped him the second the door was closed, kissing him furiously and grabbing his crotch. It was more encouragement than he needed and they were ripping their clothes off in no time, leaving a trail of professional attire wrinkled and stepped-on as she steered him toward the bedroom.

His hands were on her breasts and his body was aching with need when she started working on his pants. He stopped fondling her just long enough to pull the condom out of his pocket, but she snatched it and threw it aside, going to a drawer and pulling another one out, a different brand, shoving it into his hand. He didn't argue and she started kissing him again, getting his pants and underwear off. He stepped out of them and expertly unclasped her bra.

He slipped the condom on and she pulled back, panting.

"Wait," she said and Wilson stopped what he was doing, panting also, terror that he'd somehow picked up someone who was ambivalent racing through him. "You're clean, right?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, feeling relieved and kicking himself for forgetting to ask earlier. "You?"

"Yeah."

And she tackled him, pushing him onto the bed and attacking his neck, and he couldn't think anymore.

* * *

House changed his clothes before the pizza came. Changing was much easier now that he had Vicodin to mute the pain and he was soon comfortable in a t-shirt and sweatpants, sitting in his favorite chair and watching Conan.

The pizza came and House scarfed the first two slices before his stomach reminded him to slow down. He ate a little more, not feeling too hungry, and put the rest in the fridge for later. He worked on a beer, still warmer than he liked though he'd put a few bottles in the freezer the second he got in. Conan had Heidi Klum on tonight. She clapped at something, breasts jiggling, and his groin stirred. He rubbed it absently and kept drinking his beer. Maybe later.

The pizza felt good in his stomach and he was almost finished with the beer, warm and satisfied and tired. He got up and poured himself a glass of water, turned the lights out, and settled down on the couch to watch TV.

He wished for a minute that he'd had the presence of mind to move the TV to his bedroom at some point in the many years he'd had this apartment, but he couldn't do it himself and he didn't want to ask Wilson. That would sting his pride too much. So he sighed a little and watched Conan end the interview with Heidi and some band he'd never heard of come on next. He changed the channel.

What was on? It was Friday night…nothing much came on Friday night. He surfed the movie channels for something.

Friday night. Friday night spilling into Saturday, tomorrow—well, today since it was past midnight. Saturday. The day most people lived for in the workaday world. But not him.

Saturdays used to mean a game of some sort—lacrosse, tennis, soccer, basketball, even baseball if there was a pick-up game, out in the sunshine of the fine months, basketball, racquetball, bowling inside when it was cold and snowy, or just out, walking with Stacy, running with James, enjoying the world at large—or if not that, then a lazy Saturday indoors with Stacy and a few rounds of his personal favorite sport, or watching a game on TV with James and his old poker buddies, betting on the score and plowing through chips and beer before an evening out somewhere, sometimes with his buddies but usually with Stacy.

Funny, but he couldn't really recall what he'd done on Saturdays before he met her. He smiled a little, sadly. She pained him. He missed her. If he had enough liquor in him he might be persuaded to let slip that he still loved her, though that love was much in the way that one loved something one could never have again, with fondness and repressed tears, a memory of happier times.

He still didn't really understand why she'd left him. He _knew_ why—who'd want to stick around and nurse a cripple?—but he didn't understand it. He wasn't over her. He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't deny it either.

Wilson and his little speech.

Why would he want any relationships? He'd had paradise and he wasn't exactly holding out any hope that he'd have it again.

He didn't want love. He couldn't stand himself. How could he expect anyone else to stand him if he couldn't stand himself? Love was something past. All he wanted now was a good fuck now and then to satisfy his needs in the same way he tried to sleep at night and ate when he was hungry. Sex was a basic need. Love didn't have to come into the picture at all. No more lazy afternoons. Just an hour or so, depending on how he was feeling and how good she was, and then he could relax and feel whole again, as an infant does when he's full and sleepy.

He didn't feel that something was missing. He felt fine. He didn't need any relationships. He felt _fine_.

But this was depressing, this line of thought, even if he didn't really feel it. He knew what he needed now. He'd slept, he wasn't hungry anymore, and that left only one thing in the trifecta of simple happiness.

He turned to the Spice channel, muting the television. Porn with the sound on never did it for him unless it was girl-on-girl and this wasn't. He looked around and found a napkin on the floor, reached for it and laid it on his stomach. He found the lube he left wedged under the couch for occasions such as this and got it out. Planning ahead was so important. Time to get down to business.

His right hand snaked under the waistband of his sweat pants and he pulled himself out of his boxers, his rough, calloused hand against soft flesh. Tasteful shots of breasts, the woman rubbing herself, and he felt things getting started. Nature wasn't hard to fight.

More shots of her, good. He wanted this to be relatively quick. It had been a while and physical need would dictate the pace more than anything else.

He started thinking about the masseuse, visualizing her. She was a professional. She hadn't said anything when he could no longer conceal his erection under the cloth she'd draped over him. She was working on his leg; of course she'd known what would happen. He thought about her now, how soft her hands had been on his skin, and he was underway. She'd been good about it, of course, delicate, leaving the room when she'd finished and giving him a good five minutes to himself. He could tell she wasn't a happy ending sort.

Jerking off in his office had been weird, especially since he'd been lying on a table. She'd had him at the point where it would only take a few deft motions and he certainly knew by now how to bring himself off. He didn't want to think about the next part, though, how his hips had bucked of their own volition and his leg had shot out pain and he'd nearly cried out, both hands grabbing his leg and his erection fading until he'd never get it back.

He concentrated instead on the earlier part, her hands on his skin, her lips, her body, and the girl on the screen, her gigantic and obviously fake breasts, moving in earnest now. He was getting pre-cum on his pants, so he hooked his left thumb around the waistband and pulled them down until they were out of the way. He moved the napkin into position and greedily watched the woman bobbing up and down, hand moving furiously now, his own noises and the friction of skin on skin the only sounds in the apartment. He gasped when he came and moaned a little, familiar coital jerking in his hand and napkin getting warm with cum. His left hand wasn't working properly and cum started running down his penis but he didn't care.

The flow stopped and he went limp, hands dropping where they were and napkin falling out of the way. His breathing slowed. He felt great. Happy, sleepy, relaxed. After a moment, he wiped the semen off his half-hard dick and tossed the napkin aside, pulling his pants up, and relaxing again into the blissful, easy post-screw sleep.

This was better almost than with a partner. He didn't have anyone to care about but himself, no worrying over whether she was comfortable or having to listen to her talk or yield to her desire to cuddle. Just the sweet sleep of release. How could anyone want any more than this? He didn't know, didn't care, and let sleep claim him.

* * *

Half an hour later, Wilson was in her bathroom pulling the condom off and flushing it down the toilet. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, the healthy, stupid after-sex glow he liked so much staring back at him, and dabbed at his split lip, but not wanting to linger, he quickly washed the remaining semen off of himself and let her have the bathroom. It was her place after all.

He flopped down on the bed and was half asleep, sated and unable to think, when she was suddenly on top of him again, startling him to wakefulness.

"Can you go again?" she asked, staring hungrily down at him.

He looked at her questioningly and she grabbed him in just the right place. His eyes rolled back in his head—she was so good at this—and he gasped out, "Yeah."

He heard her rummaging in the drawer again and felt the light, cool weight of a condom wrapper fall onto his chest.

"Give me a minute," he said. He wasn't twenty-two anymore and even if he wanted it, his body needed a little more time to recover.

She wasn't waiting, though. She started kissing him and playing with him again and his hands were on her again too and he was getting there faster than he'd expected.

She wasn't doing anything new to him; it was the hunger, the desperation, the animality in her and in him that made him respond more than anything else.

He was just thinking now was the time when she slipped the condom on and he was losing himself again the only way he knew how.

* * *

A squad car squawked outside and jolted House awake. He got his bearings: comfortable, pleasantly sore, and sticky in tell-tale places. He smiled, clean enough that he could still feel a trace of the delicious endorphins of sex, and yawned.

He got up slowly, feeling good, and limped to the bathroom to clean himself up and pee. He wanted a shower but didn't want to have to bother with finding clean clothes and a towel, undressing and then having to dress again. He was so comfortable in his skin right now and a shower might wake him up more than he wanted, so he washed his hands and went back to the kitchen.

The beer he'd put in the freezer was ice-cold and he chose a bottle of the imported, wanting something a little stronger than the usual watery domestic. He moved the other bottles to the refrigerator so they wouldn't freeze, pulled out a slice of cold pizza and settled down on the couch again.

He found an entertaining infomercial and ate the pizza, mesmerized by the completely over-the-top ad techniques employed by the company. Hair restorer sold itself, really. His stomach started burning after a while—should've told them to nix the onions and jalapeños maybe—and he drank more beer.

Two o'clock rolled around and the infomercial changed to one about an amazing new mattress. Bored, he changed the channel until he found one with a host who was wearing a bad toupee to go with his bad moustache, unconsciously holding his stomach with his left hand.

He eventually lay back down when the combination of Vicodin and European beer made him forget his stomach entirely and the infomercial turned into a hazy swirl.

* * *

Wilson woke up a few hours later in the still, cold bedroom feeling tired, happy, and sore. For a moment, he thought Julie was asleep next to him, that they'd just had a wild night together, and he moved automatically to cuddle up to her, kiss her neck, run his hand lightly down the curve of her breast and tell her how much he loved her. She didn't have to hear. He said it more for himself than for her because he needed to hear it and believe it. But before he could close the space between them, he inhaled and his brain registered a strange smell. It wasn't Julie he was lying next to. He sat up, startled, and looked at her. The woman from the bar. He suddenly felt cold and dirty, hating himself.

He slid out of bed and stumbled around in the dark, using the fluorescent beams of light slanting on the floor through the blinds from outside to find his pants and boxers. He nearly tripped over his wallet looking for his shirt when he realized she'd taken it off in the other room. He heard her stir and roll over, rustling in the sheets as he put his pants on, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want his number and he didn't want to leave it. In all probability he would never see her again and that was just fine with him; she could only remind him of the reasons he hated himself.

He found the rest of his clothes, his coat, and his shoes, finished dressing, and let himself out, not even looking up at the apartment number.

He tried not to think as he walked down the stairs, punching the number for one of the cab companies on his cell. He used to have it memorized but now it was easier to store it in his phone along with other important numbers. "King Cabs" sat between "Julie Cell" and "Mom and Dad" in his phone's alphabetical memory. He didn't think about that either, rubbing his sore groin instead as he gave the operator the address he vaguely remembered her saying earlier. Outside now, he hugged his coat tight against himself in the cold air and waited for the cab to arrive.

He couldn't go home and he couldn't bear to check himself into a hotel right now or even go back to his office and sleep on the couch. So when the cab pulled up, he got in and hesitated only a moment before giving the cabbie the address he knew better than his own. He simply didn't know what else to do.

* * *

The soft, defeated knock on his door at four a.m. didn't surprise House anymore than the fact that he was awake at that hour and watching TV did.

His stomach still hurt and he was vaguely nauseous from the Vicodin and beer, but he felt pretty good, limbs warm and medicated. It was nearly time for another pill but he was comfortable and his pills were in his jacket and his jacket was in his bedroom and he didn't really want to get up.

The knock again, weak and unsure. Should he let him in? Wilson would be fresh from a night of punishing himself. At this late hour—well after the bars had closed—he knew that Wilson had gone home with someone and that he was feeling bad about it, otherwise he would've stayed with whoever it was. Feelings glimmered on the well-patrolled border of thought—sympathy, rage, sadness, frustration—but they were fuzzy and ill-defined and easy to ignore. He felt what he needed and wanted to feel: nothing.

The knock came again, feeble now, barely there. He was hazy and indistinct, like that knock, like he liked to be, and without any further thought, he pushed himself up limped across the room, fumbling with the locks.

Wilson was looking at the ground, shoulders slumped forward when House opened the door. His shirt was wrinkled and torn and traces of red clung to his collar—blood to match his split lip and lipstick to match his mused hair and wrinkled pants with one pocket inside out. House didn't need to look at him to sense his desperation. The fact that he was here at all after yesterday told him everything.

Wilson breathed in, not looking up. "Can I come in or what?" he said shakily.

House waited a beat and stepped aside. Wilson walked in and tossed his coat on the floor. House closed the door, locked it, and stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do. Wilson stood still too, his back to House, barely breathing.

After a while, House shifted his weight and said, "There's pizza in the fridge," before he took off for his bedroom, not waiting for Wilson to respond.

Wilson heard the door slam and nodded to himself. This was how he knew it would be and it was okay. House had let him in. That was enough.

He stepped out of his shoes, pushing them against the wall where they wouldn't be in the way, and went to the kitchen. A pizza box held the only edible contents of House's refrigerator and Wilson fished it out along with a beer. More than half of the pizza was left so he grabbed a few slices and put the rest back, not bothering with a plate or to warm them up. He sat on the couch and ate, absently watching the infomercial House had been watching, noticing that the couch was still warm where House had been lying on it. He didn't think about that either.

Done with the pizza and most of the beer, he took his shirt and belt off and lay down. He was cold—the leather had cooled while he was eating and pressed cold against his back through his thin undershirt—but he was too tired to get up now and dig out a blanket. He turned the TV off, covered himself with his shirt, closed his eyes, and hoped he was worn out enough to sleep.

* * *

House sat down on his bed, not knowing what to feel. His jacket was next to him and he pulled out the pill bottle, staring at it. All because of this: glass, plastic, hydrocodone bitartrate 10 mg, acetaminophen 650 mg, various inactive acids, sodiums, lactose, and a few other things for color and taste. Wilson was on his couch, eating his pizza and drinking his beer, and the only way House knew how to deal with that right now rested in the palm of his hand. The problem and its solution.

One or two? That was the question.

He only needed one; he didn't hurt much. But one wouldn't knock him out and he knew that unless the Vicodin did it, he wasn't going to sleep at all. He wanted to sleep very badly if only because it would make him stop listening for noises from the other room where his best friend who only hours ago had broken through his defenses and stripped him bare, and then got to have better sex than he had had in years was now watching infomercials on his television. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything but that, even long after Wilson was asleep and the sun had come up.

Two it was.

He shook them out and swallowed them, standing up. He put the pills on his nightstand and hung his jacket up, then slipped off his sweatpants and got into bed. Pillow under his knee, two under his head and shoulders, and fifteen minutes to kill before they kicked in. He picked a journal out of the stack next to him, _Actualités en bref pour Maladies Infectieuses_, and started skimming the articles, more to catch French-Canadian lapses in traditional Parisian grammar than anything else.

He was half-interested in the results of one study, despite its flawed methodology, when he felt the Vicodin rush to his head, making him dizzy and the page in front of him blur. He tossed the journal aside and snapped the lamp off, letting the high take him.


	23. Storm

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** Finally, huh? It's about time, I know. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed this fic and asked about its status in the good long while it wasn't speaking to me. I _so_ did not mean for that to happen.

What you've got below is the first part of a longer chapter that's mostly written. I wanted to get this out there first, though, because that makes the writing of it easier. The rest of the chapter should be along (dare I say?) shortly.

Thanks again to everyone who's read and commented on this fic. It's on its way back. :)

* * *

**Storm**

"I press my forehead to the cool table-top. A feeling of well-being like a wedge driven into the glare of a devoured meal. Everything's hidden in plain view. My heart, my face...all enlisted in the tedious delight of the wedge. This delight brings me to where it's too late. All that's left for me is well-being and death. It's never too late for well-being and death."

-Joe Wenderoth, "March 24, 1997," _Letters to Wendy's_

Wilson started awake, skin prickling with cold. Waking up on House's couch was so familiar to him that for a second he thought everything was all right—that however badly he'd screwed up with his wife or his girlfriend or anyone, he was here and that meant he was safe. Not alone. He couldn't bear waking up alone, surrounded by his own things, the detritus of his life staring wildly at him from all corners of his house or apartment or office: things, dead, dead things. Things that when added up suggested a life lived—suggested death. Told him that he was alone with himself. He couldn't stand it most of the time.

But waking up on House's couch, just like waking up in his marital bed, told him he was needed. Being needed meant he was important and alive and not indispensable. Maybe he'd gone into oncology for that reason: no one needed the kind hand of a compassionate doctor more than cancer patients. They were scared and in pain and his mere presence, a hand to hold on to, a shoulder for tears, made a real difference. He meant something at work. He meant something at home with his wife. He meant something to a girlfriend. And in the first waking moment of the morning, the familiar leather couch under him, the familiar smell around him, the familiar morning-after purgatory inside him, he thought he meant something to House.

Then groaning wakefulness, stretching, sitting up. Then—terrible—then memory. He remembered why his mouth hurt, why his groin was sore, why the room was too-still and foreboding, television off.

Oh God. That stupid, stupid fight with House. His usual stupid reaction to emotional events, going out and picking someone up, knowing he'd regret it and doing it anyway, then crawling to House because he couldn't face himself.

But he was here. House had let him in. Yes, now he remembered. House had let him in. And he'd been angry—the cold, quiet type of angry, not the loud, yelling, door-slamming type of angry—but he'd still opened the door. Wilson knew House knew exactly who it was knocking on his door in the early morning hours and still he'd opened it. He could still taste the pizza, too, and the beer. House had offered him that. He hadn't taken it as he usually would have, _mi casa su casa_, no. House had offered it. Freely.

Did that mean truce?

Yes, truce.

Truce.

And truce meant he couldn't stay any longer than he already had.

He rubbed his forehead tiredly and struggled in to the shirt he'd been using as a blanket. The VCR clock said 8:16 and he smelled blood and lipstick faintly as he buttoned the shirt, shivering in the cool of the room. February. He looked around and—yes, there it was, his overcoat. Scarf too. No gloves, though.

How had he gotten here? Taxi probably. His car…he thought for a moment…yes, probably at the bar he'd gone to last night. No problem. He had his cell: he'd call for a pick up and collect his car.

Where would he go after that? Probably work. He needed a shower first, though. He couldn't show up at the hospital looking like he did. People talked enough already. But could he go home? Face Julie with the knowledge that he'd been whoring around again? Where had she been last night, though. He wouldn't ask. He knew she wouldn't ask him either. Their marriage had evolved without a single word between them in to a mutual 'don't ask, don't tell' compact. 'Love, honor, and obey' were now 'don't ask, don't tell, don't worry till at last we do part'.

Divorce, though. He was too old to get another divorce. He didn't want to get another divorce. Not so much because he disliked the process—though he did dislike the process, very much—but because he didn't want to have to get married again. And he knew he would, almost immediately, probably to someone at least ten years younger—maybe fifteen, maybe more, though he didn't want someone too young—and that younger bride would expect a few years of attention and devotion. And if he wasn't starting to feel his age, he'd give it to her willingly. But the effort just didn't seem worth it any longer. Having to bring someone new in to his life, make nice with her relatives, introduce her, meet her friends—in short, to spend time with her—was too stressful. Work was too busy. Greg was getting more and more depressed. He felt needed enough. If Julie ever really needed him—human to human, not husband to wife—he'd be there without hesitation. He was good at being needed and, in small doses, good at being wanted. A few weeks of a new girlfriend wanting him so badly she showed up at work against his express wishes felt great. Any longer than that put pressure on him he couldn't deal with. Once he started having to _try_, to put effort into it, to sustain the relationship, then he wanted out.

Julie, he knew, had figured that out years ago. They cohabitated well together. The marriage was dying—dead—and he was okay with it. He hadn't been okay with it the first time and he'd initiated the divorce. She hadn't been okay with it the second time and she'd initiated the divorce. This time, though, he sensed she was as okay with it as he was. To a certain point. Maybe she had a limit. He didn't know. Maybe he had a limit, too. It had really hurt when he'd realized she was running around again. He'd felt like pond scum: if he didn't come first to his wife, he didn't matter at all. But no, of course he'd realized that that wasn't true, that he did the same thing to her all the time and he had no right to feel that way. He'd still felt betrayed and horrible. Then he'd gone out and did what he always did and now he just felt low.

And this time he wouldn't have a shower and turn on the TV, waiting until House surfaced so they could spend the day eating buffalo wings and playing mini golf or video games or taking a day trip to Atlantic City or any of the things that made him feel normal again. This time he'd screwed it up by not leaving well enough alone. But God, thinking that, saying that to himself, he knew it wasn't true. Things hadn't been well enough and he'd done the right thing by not leaving them alone. But Greg didn't see it that way—how could he? his life was crap—and it had come to a head.

And now he stood in Greg's living room feeling like he'd just clubbed a baby seal, pulling on his overcoat, though he had nowhere to go.

He would turn to work today, he knew, as he always did. Work always needed him. It didn't allow him to feel sorry for himself: ten minutes of listening to a patient's relative talk about their loved one and how they'd never ever thought this would happen to them made his troubles seem so trivial that he could brush them off and stop feeling bad. Ten minutes with House created an equal and opposite reaction: he no longer felt bad because House had cheered him up and reminded him in a positive way that he had it good.

But that wasn't going to happen today. Not with House. So it would be work.

He remembered that he had a change of clothes in the trunk of his car. All he needed was a different shirt. And if she noticed, well, so what. She'd understand that he was doing the courteous thing by at least trying to cover his tracks. Right now he would go to her. After that, he would go to work. And later, once he'd given House enough space to cool off, he'd test the truce out.

That was what he had in front of him. It would have to be good enough.

Cell phone in his hand, he closed the door behind him and dialed a cab company.

* * *

Sunlight streaming through the windows. A familiar smell: home: himself, his bed. Soft sheets, pillows. Quiet. The natural sounds of birds and a minimal mix of street noise and his upstairs neighbor shifting around. And best of all, almost no pain. 

Okay, some pain. In his left hand, his head, his stomach, his right hip, the ever-present ache of strained muscles and frayed nerves all along his right leg. But they were cool and distant as though they'd been drizzled in molasses: he could feel them and he knew they were there but he was separated from them: a glass partition between him and pain keeping it from swallowing him whole, regurgitating him, and swallowing him again slowly until he was a formless, shapeless, meaningless lump, good to no one, least of all himself.

God he felt good. So good. Agonizingly, achingly good like pain in the teeth after too much cotton candy or a brain freeze. This was it. This was happiness. Mere creature comfort perhaps but happiness nonetheless. He'd take what he could get.

He stretched his arms out, hands gliding through the sheets, and shifted his left leg slightly until the pressure in his back was alleviated. Sleeping on his back. It was a good thing he'd always slept on his back or this would suck.

His right hand crept absently to his thigh and gently felt around. He did this every morning he woke up and felt good just to make sure he wasn't dead. The downward slope of muscle from his hip to the long indentation where the muscle had been removed, scar tissue jagged and pitted like the surface of the moon, brushing over the familiar epidermal scars, and up again, out of the valley, ascending toward the crest of his knee. Mountain top. He felt the bone more today, tips of his fingers recalling the sharpness, the usual layer of fatty tissue missing. The loose skin was looser than it normally was. Right. He'd lost weight. Body burning fat to keep going. Emaciation. Not the best diet.

He hadn't opened his eyes yet. Every thigh reconnaissance mission was always conducted with closed eyes. On the day he felt muscle under his fingers, that was the day he'd open them mid-exam and expect to see whatever he felt like seeing appear in front of him at the speed of thought. Beautiful, naked women. A vat of chocolate to swim in. A track stretching to infinity, beckoning. New running shoes on his feet. Warm day with a gentle breeze. His old college lacrosse team lined up against Dartmouth to replay the best game of his life. The ball flashing in the air, legs kicking and pounding, grass and dirt and sunshine, the grunts, huffing and yells of the other players as they crowded and swerved and hustled, swishing the stick back and forth deftly in his hands, catching a pass, dodging a tackle, tossing the ball to another player, goal. Victory smack against his teammate, two young bucks colliding eagerly, chest on chest. Ball reset. Clash again and again and again. Trophies and congratulations and a warm shower afterward, that delicious feeling of well-earned tiredness. Party for the team at one of the frats. Leaving early with his girlfriend. Stamina. Three times, his personal best, setting the record that night. Waking up sweaty and sore, cool May breeze through his dorm window, she wedged in his single bed, bare breasts against his chest, his erection hard against her hip. Illicit, dangerous: not co-ed housing. Saturday, no class. Long, slow mid-morning screw followed by a late breakfast. The rest of the day open as the blue sky above.

But the muscle was still missing. He wasn't dead. Just feeling good. He'd take it for what it was. He always had his memories.

Wilson.

No.

He hadn't met Wilson yet. That came later.

Wilson.

Last night.

Yesterday.

The week.

Shit.

He could tell from the way the apartment breathed that Wilson had left already. Why should he stay? Running away was all he was good for anyway. Whatever.

He reached automatically for his pills and felt a certain pleasure when his hand closed over the bottle. He put one in his mouth and sucked on it out of habit.

What to do today?

The light from the windows told him it was about nine o'clock. All this sleep he was getting, it was really nice. Relaxing.

Saturday morning cartoons were probably still on. He had Captain Crunch. No milk, though. A trip to the grocery store? No way. He wasn't up for that. Too cold outside. Sidewalks icy. The cold made his leg worse; he'd just gotten it to feel better: he wasn't ready for it to feel bad again. Still, milk and cereal sounded good…but even calling in an order and having it delivered felt like too much today. He had all week to get to the store. Later, then. He'd do it later.

Plenty of books to read. Journals. Magazines. Maybe after he had a shower.

Shower. That was the thing to do first. Have a shower.

He swallowed the sliver of Vicodin he'd been sucking on and slowly slid out of bed, entire body sore from such a dead sleep. He paused on the edge of the bed, right leg extended, left leg bent with the foot on the floor, and looked at his thigh. Ugly. It was ugly every time he looked at it. No. He wouldn't dwell today like he always did. He wouldn't be morose. He felt good and he was going to keep feeling good.

His cane was resting against the nightstand. Grabbing it, he pushed himself up with a wince and hobbled to the door. He hesitated a moment before opening it—what if he was wrong and Wilson was still on his couch? what would he say? what would he do?—but shook his head and twisted the knob resolutely. Yes. Wilson was gone. He was right. Good. He wasn't going to think about it. He felt too good.

He poured himself a generous glass of water and gulped it down. Shower first. Then breakfast pizza. Then something else.

He gimped stiffly toward the shower.

* * *

Her car was in the driveway when he pulled in. Good thing he'd changed his shirt once he'd gotten to his car and dumped the old one. A few buttons had been torn off. Nothing got blood out anyway. 

They had a nice house, an ordinary house. He'd let her pick it. For the most part, he didn't care where he lived as long as it was reasonably close to work and not too crowded or noisy. He liked a medium-sized yard big enough to hit chip shots in but not so big that mowing it was more of a chore than it had to be. Though he'd only mown it once; they'd hired a small crew of college kids to keep it up for them in the summer. A high school kid down the street shoveled their driveway when it snowed. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. No Dennises lived on their street, though.

The neighborhood was aging yuppie and the few block parties he'd been to had satisfied him that he could carry on a decent conversation with anyone there. A few people had kids, but there were enough childless couples on the block that Julie didn't feel left out. When he'd seen a group of five or six kids gather a safe distance from the moving van on the day they'd moved in, he wondered if she'd been thinking kids or not. He'd been so busy with his career then, scrambling to set himself up for board membership and one day to take over the department, that he'd brushed her off when she'd asked. It hadn't really come up since then. He wasn't sure now. She was only thirty-four—he felt certain they could have a child if they wanted one. She'd never said that she didn't want kids. Now, though, they were both living like they were single. He wasn't sure he'd be a good father anyway. But maybe some day… He'd always liked the idea of adopting. Or, if he had it more together, being a foster parent. Having someone that was half his, though, a blood tie—that meant something different entirely. Maybe if he met the right person. Maybe some day.

But not if he kept living like he was living now. He'd been living this way since his twenties, though. He didn't know how to change and wasn't sure he really wanted to.

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Warmth greeted him. The dog barking, running toward him. He rubbed the dog's head and took off his overcoat, putting his keys in his pocket.

Lights on. Faint smell of baking.

"James," she said calmly when he passed the kitchen.

He stopped and hung in the doorway. She was in her bathrobe reading the newspaper.

She glanced up quickly at him, then back to the paper. If she noticed his split lip, she didn't let on.

"Long night?" she said.

"Yeah," he said. "Patient."

"House again?"

"No, he's doing okay now," he said. "Eight year old. Leukemia. First round of chemo yesterday afternoon. She had an allergic reaction to one of the pain killers we gave her. Rough night for her, worse for her parents."

"There but for the grace of God, right?" she said. But she was only saying it. She didn't mean it. She wasn't thankful. It was only a stock phrase.

He nodded slightly.

"I wish you cared one tenth about me as you do your patients," she said. It wasn't bitter or angry. It was merely a statement of fact. She sipped at her coffee, unconcerned.

"So do I," he said honestly, but he didn't really mean it either. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Walk Charlie when you're done," she said. "He's getting fat."

"I will," he said.

"I'm going to the gym in a little bit, then lunch with Marie," Julie said. "You're okay here?"

"I think I'm going to go back in for a little while," Wilson said. "Paperwork will start spilling out the window if I don't make some headway."

"Will you be home for dinner?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, "so let's say no just to be safe."

"Okay," Julie said, "that's fine."

He started toward the stairs.

"James," she said looking up from the paper.

He turned back.

"Don't forget my sister's coming in tomorrow," she said. "I'd like you here when she gets here if that's not too much to ask."

"What time?"

"Her flight lands at nine in Philly," Julie said. "So I need you back by eleven at the latest. We're going to lunch."

"Sure you don't want it to be just you and her?" Wilson asked, hoping to get out of it.

"I'm asking you to do this," she said evenly.

"Okay," he said turning back to the stairs, "eleven."

"James," she said.

He stopped again. "What?"

"Dinner too."

His shoulders slumped forward.

"I don't care what you do next week," she said seeing him slump, "stay at work as late as you want, I really don't care. Two meals, that's all. She'll buy whatever excuse you come up with if you do these two meals tomorrow, but if you miss one and I have to tell her you're working, she'll need to see you again next week. Monday or Tuesday. Do this and you've got the week off."

"Okay, fine," he said. "That it?"

"That's it," she said. "Don't forget to walk the dog."

"I won't," he said over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs.

Perfect, just perfect. Lunch and dinner with the in-law, a round of shopping on the Visa in between no doubt. Perfect end to a perfect week. Just perfect.

He thought about the shirt from last night he'd shamefacedly thrown into a dump outside the bar. Maybe he should've brought it home and left it in the laundry pile. Let her see. Let her know that he didn't care if she saw. But he did care. He couldn't turn it off, the caring, like House could. Most of the time that assured him of his humanity. Right now as he stepped into the shower and cued up a few appropriate images—the masseuse again, yes—he wished he could, if only for a little while.


	24. The Hours

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** none (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Spoilers for "Detox," "Sports Medicine," and "Control," with slight "DNR"  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** The even-numbered hours are House's and the odd-numbered hours Wilson's.

IN – Thanks. :) Your writing's really coming along. I like the way you dealt with time-shifts and perspective in the most recent chapter of Stumble—but that's something I should put in a review, not here. Keep it up, though—keep writing for sure. :)

jennamajig – Thanks. I'm glad you appreciate the medical realism—I had no clue I'd be so anal about it when I started writing this piece, but since it turned out that way, I really do appreciate that you noticed the research. And I appreciate your taking the time to review. Welcome to the fandom!

Ginny3 – Thanks very much for the heads up on Trenton's lack of a major airport! That's one area where I didn't do the kind of research I should've even though I know how spotty my mid-Atlantic/New England geography is. I had to look at a map before I realized Trenton and Philly are nearly on top of each other. :smacks forehead: But yes, thanks very much for correcting that. It's fixed now. I hope the temperature hi-lo in this chapter is approximate; I didn't look anything up, but having just survived my first real winter in Indiana after a lifetime of "winters" in Louisiana, that's what it felt like in the mid-west in February. :) Thanks again for the fact-check and the review!

wolfsauge – Thanks and cheers. :)

CKlovesme2040 – Thanks. There's more to come in this fic—about ten chapters worth. :)

* * *

**The Hours**

Ten.

Out of the shower, clean, muscles soothed by hot water, dressed in a comfortable t-shirt and easy-off, easy-on sweatpants, relaxed from the Dutch handshake and Vicodin that had kicked in during the shower, feeling pretty okay all around, he grabbed the pizza box out of the refrigerator and, damn his hand, made another trip for a glass of water, then flopped on the couch and felt the sense of satisfaction that came with taking a really good dump when he pressed 'power' on the remote. And on the sixth day, Behold, There was TV.

Settling a Bugs Bunny cartoon, he hefted a thickly-loaded slice of cold pizza out of the box and regarded it for a moment. He could tell he was going to throw up sometime in the near future—he'd taken too much Vicodin yesterday and last night, assuming a resistance that wasn't there any longer, and the glass of water from earlier wasn't exactly happy right about now—but he ate the pizza anyway. Because why not? He was hungry and he was going to eat and that was that.

He laughed as Daffy Duck's bill was blown to the back of his head by Elmer Fudd.

* * *

Eleven.

Showered and shaved, Julie having slammed the door half an hour ago, Wilson bent over the computer and started answering emails.

His secretary took care of most of them—making appointments for as many consults as his schedule allowed—and forwarded the ones that needed his specific attention to him. Questions from colleagues mostly. Sharon was good about filtering out the things that would waste his time, like constant hit-ups from drug reps who wanted to cover both bases, phone and email, invitations to be a panel moderator at conferences, a few unscrupulous job offers from brown-nosing associate deans who were just wondering if he'd ever considered the quality of living in beautiful, sunny Miami. But the messages that go through to him were real and required real time. He was behind on answering them right now.

He spent half an hour writing a lengthy, detailed response to a colleague in Kansas before he heard the dog whining and scratching at the door.

He saved the email draft and stood for a moment in indecision. Let Charlie out in the back to do his business or bundle up and take the dog on a jog?

Charlie whined again and looked up at him from the backdoor as he entered the kitchen. The dog's face was earnest: he didn't look like he wanted to wait.

"Charlie," Wilson said, "you wanna go on a walk, boy? Huh? Do ya? Do ya?"

The dog whined and scratched again.

"Okay, okay," Wilson said opening the door, "out you go."

The dog scampered out.

Wilson glanced up at the sky. White-bright, sun shining. Looked snowy to him. He hadn't planned to go out exactly, but he hadn't precluded the possibility either. Now, though…looked like it would get nasty later on. Maybe he'd stay in tonight.

Scratch on the door.

He let the dog back in. Charlie danced around him, barking happily.

"Better, huh?" he said.

The dog barked and licked his hand.

"Wanna go on a walk? Walk, Charlie? Walk?"

The dog barked his assent.

"Okay," Wilson said going to the closet where they kept winter coats, "okay, hang on."

The dog barked happily again and danced with excitement that his master was paying attention to him while Wilson suited up for a jog in the cold.

* * *

Twelve.

Nothing left to come up any more. He spat and flushed. Disgusting. His own stupid fault for getting carried away with the pills last night. It had an unmistakable reddish tint. So he'd finally burst some kind of vessel. All that acid eating at the lining, upsetting the pH balance, and now another launching of his insides—that did it. Wonderful.

He washed his mouth out and found his jacket from last night. Benadryl, excellent, still a few left.

He grabbed a blanket from the bedroom—was it a little cold in there? seemed like it—and took them to the couch, forcing himself to swallow two with water. He watched the light change in the apartment as a bank of clouds covered the sun and turned to the weather channel, mildly interested in what the forecaster was saying.

Might snow today. High 27, low 9. Frigid. Pity the fool who'd be out in it.

Once his stomach settled and he began to feel sleepy, he lay down and covered himself up, the weather channel oddly interesting at the present moment.

* * *

One.

Left over casserole from…well, who could tell when…but it was good. She could cook. The first two could cook too. He could cook himself and did on occasion. Cooking, he found, had never been a problem. But he wasn't going to worry about that today.

Good casserole and a mug of cider to go with it, the noon news on, the dog at his feet, both he and the dog warm and tired from the jog: not too bad.

Now it was nap time. He had a massive sleep deficit to work on. No time like the present to grab a few winks.

He turned off the lights in the living room and muted the television, lying down on the couch, the dog asleep below him on a rug. The dog snorted in his sleep and Wilson smiled to himself as he closed his eyes.

Warm in his house, snug. Fed, watered, and exercised. Man and his dog napping together.

It wasn't a bad life. Not really.

* * *

Two.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

* * *

Three.

Five miles down, five more to go, feet pounding on the treadmill.

He liked to get a good run in whenever he could and since it was threatening to snow outside and had little else to do indoors that he could actually concentrate on, he'd fired up the trusty treadmill in his cluttered home gym.

A bench and weights in one corner, a punching bag in another, his golf clubs and a variety of other sports gear in the third. It was the one room in the house that was totally his. Julie never went in there. She had friends at the gym they belonged to and preferred that. He had friends at the gym, too, for that matter, but he didn't always get to keep to a regular schedule and found himself at home wanting a run during inclement weather often enough that a treadmill had seemed like a good idea. It was his money, anyway, and he rarely spent it on himself. On the whole, though, the treadmill gathered dust with everything else in the room.

Normally he liked to think when he ran. Not today. He'd angled the treadmill so that he could just see the television in the living room through the door. He could follow the Celtics-Knicks game closely enough to remain interested and avoid thinking as he ran.

Half an hour later, he was pleasantly tired and lathered, and started to slow down, wiping his face with a towel. He wondered idly about where Julie had left the latest issue of Sports Illustrated as he slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, then a walk.

The phone rang just as he finished cooling down.

Wiping his face again, he went to the kitchen to get it and glanced at the caller ID: Warner, M. Who? Not a local area code: 973. Who did he know in northern Jersey? No one by the name of Warner.

The phone rang again in his hand and he answered it.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to James?"

Female voice on the other end. Very familiar. Very, very familiar.

"Speaking," he said. "Who is this?"

"Stacy."

Oh. Right. But when you hadn't heard someone's voice in a few years, you tended to forget exactly how it sounded.

"Ahh," he said, "I thought it was you. How are you?"

"Doing well," she said. "You?"

"Fine," he answered wondering why she was calling him on a Saturday afternoon.

"Good," she said. "I'm calling because I need to talk to you about something. I know that sounds silly…but I can't really talk about it over the phone. I'm going to be in town next weekend—can I meet you for lunch or dinner somewhere?"

"Sure," Wilson said immediately. "What's this about?"

"It's something I need to tell you in person," she said. "Don't worry—I'm okay, everything's fine. But I do need to talk to you. It would be weird over the phone. If that's okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Wilson said. "Do you, uhh, have any details?"

"I'm driving down Friday afternoon," she said. "How about lunch on Saturday? Roark's on Third?"

"Roark's closed last year," Wilson said.

"Aww, too bad," she said. "Listen, I'm kind of busy right now. Can I give you my cell number and figure out the details later?"

"Sure," Wilson said, still bewildered. Unexpected _and_ clandestine. Something was up.

He took the number, said goodbye, and hung up.

Weird. Not one word in nearly three years and suddenly this? She sounded skittish, too. Not quite like herself. And who was Warner, M.? Friend? Boyfriend? Well…someone. Not really his business. But that was just like her, calling up, talking for about five minutes like that was all she had out of her day to spare for chit-chat, and then no word for a long time. She usually asked about House, though. No, scratch that, she _always_ asked about House. That was all they talked about. Not this time, though. Something was definitely up. Something important to her and complex enough that it needed explaining in person. Didn't sound like she was in trouble, though. All the same it was weird. Very, very weird.

And what would he tell House?

What _could _he tell House?

'Oh, by the way, the love of your life is going out with me next weekend—yeah, she called me, something she wants to talk about, who knows. Are you gonna eat that?'

Not good. Very not good.

But he'd already agreed to it. And she'd been his friend before he'd introduced her to House, so she still counted as his friend, right? This was just friendly catching up, right? She needed something and he'd try to be there for her as her friend, right?

Oh God. Not another secret on top of the bet. House was a bloodhound: he'd have it out of him in no time. Crap.

Not good at all. Not with a delicate truce between them. Double crap.

All this _and_ he had to spend time with Julie's sister tomorrow? Ugh.

He glanced out of the window: it was snowing lightly outside.

What to do, what to do.

He wiped his face one final time and started toward the stairs for another shower, trying to figure something out when a thought struck him: she hadn't called House, had she?

Ohhhh crap. If she had… Ohhhhh crap.

But House would go ballistic and his phone would be ringing itself to death by now, right? But what if he didn't? What if whatever it was, it was bad for him, hard on him. …scratch that, _anything _she had to say to him would be hard on him. The mere notion of her communicating with him at all was bad. With this uneasy truce between them, he might not call at all. Might still be angry. Might—oh crap—might try something.

Okay, he didn't think House would _try something_, not really, but if she had called him… And even if he didn't try anything, he'd still be upset and Wilson knew how he liked to pace when he was upset. It was snowing outside. The sidewalks were icy, he knew from his morning jog with Charlie. Crap. _Crap_.

But no…no…House would call him if something as big as Stacy trying to get in touch with him happened. He'd call him first. They'd discussed this after the breakup, albeit in a circuitous, slightly vague manner. House wouldn't be so stupid as to let yesterday's spat stop him from calling if something big like this happened.

No way. House was fine. _If_ she'd tried to call him at all. No, House was fine. He was just being paranoid. That was all. Just had too much time on his hands to think today.

Nevertheless, he took the phone off of its cradle and carried it upstairs with him as he went to shower.

* * *

Four.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

* * *

Five.

The phone hadn't rung once while he was in the shower. He'd checked his cell and pager too: nothing.

Nothing: it was probably nothing. She probably hadn't called House at all.

She was a smart woman and despite everything that had happened between the two of them, she was a kind woman and a loving woman. She didn't act out of malice. She'd even kept up with House for over a year after they broke up, calling Wilson every few weeks to see if he was okay: was he eating enough? could he get around all right? was he settling into work again?

Wilson could tell during that first year that she still cared for him—maybe she still loved him, he didn't know and didn't feel it was his place to ask—but she obviously cared. Much more than he had ever cared about his two exes and he'd been _married_ to them.

The calls had tapered off, though, and he found himself thinking one day that he hadn't heard from her in a few months. Something had changed. It was good, he thought: she'd moved on. Maybe that meant that House would move on soon too. But as far as he could tell that hadn't happened yet.

Time, though. There was still time.

There was always still time.

He paced in his living room. Julie would be back any minute but that didn't concern him. He was restless. Very restless. Trying very hard to let go of the niggling thought that House wasn't okay. Of course he was okay. He was fine—probably fine. Probably playing video games. No, no—his hand. Probably watching TV then. But fine either way. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all to worry about.

Sensing his mood, the dog whined at him.

"What?" he said to the dog.

Charlie tilted his head to the right, brown eyes fixed on his master, and whined again.

"Another walk?" he said. "It's snowing. It's cold, boy."

The dog whined again and pawed the floor.

"Okay," Wilson said, realizing he'd been pacing for half an hour. "I'm restless, you're restless, walk's a good idea. Not long, though. It'll be dark soon."

He glanced out the window.

"Doesn't look like the snow's sticking. That's good, huh? Not as cold on your paws, huh?"

The dog barked and cantered around him as he went to the closet and pulled out his winter gear.

"Yeah," Wilson said, "excited? Mommy doesn't take you out much, does she? Mommy's going to be home soon. You excited to see mommy? Huh? You excited Charlie? See mommy?"

The dog barked excitedly.

"Yeah, I bet you are," Wilson said and clipped the leash to the dog's collar and opened the door.

So much for not going out tonight.

* * *

Six.

The apartment was nearly dark with winter night. Light flickering from the television was the only sign that anyone was home.

House rammed the car he'd stolen into the side of a brick building covered in graffiti and jumped out, firing furiously as he ran to the next available ride and continued on the mission. Rockstar Games really outdid themselves when they made Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. He was naturally wary of sequels but this game lived up to its predecessor and then some, though the notion of having to feed and exercise a video game character was still a little odd to him. It remained a great game, but his concentration was waning as the missions got harder. Beating up a crack dealer wasn't hard at all, but staging a casino heist was a little more than he could handle right now.

He quit the game, hauled himself up, and switched it out in favor of Simpsons Hit and Run. Great mindless game that rewarded car crashing and running over people. He hadn't played it in months. He flexed his left hand as the game started up, pleased that it didn't hurt much. Video games were all thumbs anyway.

His stomach rumbled hungrily and he thought about ordering a pizza. But that meant finding the phone and dealing with the person on the other end. A few slices of last night's pizza were still in the fridge. They'd do. Right now it was much easier to crush Ned Flanders under his broken-down hunk of junk every time he said anything with 'diddly' in it than it was to deal with someone he couldn't crush under a car.

* * *

Seven.

Wilson stood in line at Blockbuster, DVD in hand, wondering if he should spring for popcorn, cotton candy, Milk Duds, or all three in addition to the six pack of beer he was going to purchase next.

But wait—what kind of question was that? This was House, human vacuum cleaner.

He scooped up all three, two of each, and added some kind of gummi candy and a box of Runts to the pile until he couldn't carry anything else.

Two small children in line in front of him gaped at the treasure he had and started pestering their mother. The woman turned around and glared at him: she'd heard him gathering up all that sweet stuff. He looked down contritely but didn't give up any of his booty. House might still be mad at him tomorrow but at least he could say in his defense that he'd brought a generous peace offering.

He'd remembered in the middle of jogging with the dog that he and House had a date to watch basketball tonight. It had become clear to him then too that he'd only pace all night unless he did something—that is, go over and, no this wasn't right but that's what it felt and sounded like, 'check' on him. He was grown man; he didn't need a babysitter. But they had a prearranged appointment for college hoops. That was a good reason, right? No, he'd reasoned as he kept the dog to a steady jog, that was a pretty weak reason and would likely be greeted by a sneer and a slammed door in his face.

Then he'd remembered Julie's sister and lunch and dinner tomorrow. Sheer torture. But it provided him with an excellent reason for showing up unannounced. Perfect reason; unimpeachable reason. And he was bringing entertainment, snacks, and drinks: he felt he had all of his bases covered.

He handed the movie and overpriced snacks to the clerk. He had two other movies waiting in his car from his own collection. Yep, he was covering all his bases tonight. It was a delicate situation that required delicate handling and total base coverage.

But as he gave the clerk a twenty, part of him just wanted to give up and go home.

Julie would probably like to watch the movie he was renting and she'd like it if he brought her popcorn too. It would be a semi-romantic gesture, the kind he didn't make often enough. It would ease some of the tension he felt when he was around her.

But no, he didn't want to spend the evening with her. They had nothing to say to each other. He'd be awkward around her since he'd cheated last night and it would probably end in disappointment. Maybe even a fight. And she didn't like popcorn very much he recalled as he took his change from the clerk.

So better give House a try.

Yes, that was the best thing to do. He probably wouldn't sleep tonight if he didn't.

He just hoped House would answer the door.

* * *

Eight.

_Maybe it's the pizza_, he thought as he coughed, spat, and rubbed his burning nose. _Maybe pizza wasn't the best idea_.

His stomach heaved again and he did his best to remain balanced on his three good limbs and still hit the mark. Those last three slices had been a mistake. He coughed and spat again, breathing hard, hoping it was over. No, here it came again—ugh, surely this was the last of it.

Yeah, those three slices were a mistake. Big mistake. And he'd definitely popped a vessel, though it wasn't as bloody this time. Christ, what a crappy time to get into some bad chow, just when he was on the mend.

He flipped the lid down and collapsed on to the commode, hissing as the motion twisted his leg, leaning to the right to fold his arms on the sink counter and rest his head in them. This was supposed to be a good day. What happened to that? Ugh.

He gave himself a few minutes before he got up, flushed the toilet, washed his mouth out, and gimped back to his couch.

The bottle of Vicodin, his prize, and the bottle of Benadryl, his unhappy crutch, sat like twin towers on coffee table next to the empty pizza box. He grabbed the box and an empty glass and went to the kitchen. He threw away the box in disgust and re-filled the water glass, then went back to the couch, carefully navigating his dark, cluttered apartment in the flickering, inconsistent light of the TV. He wondered idly as he sat down whether the twice the normal pay would entice his cleaning lady out of her warm dwelling and into his nasty bachelor pad on a Sunday…but he'd need to be out of the way for her to do her job and he didn't really want to go anywhere. Too cold out, stomach on the fritz again—no, he wasn't going anywhere.

Vicodin, Benadryl. He wasn't due for another Vicodin yet—he'd taken one when he woke up earlier—and he didn't need one yet. Benadryl. Blech. He'd gotten three days' worth of sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Besides, he didn't feel sick anymore. Just empty. Empty wasn't too bad.

His back was starting to complain, but rather than move to a chair with an ottoman, he grabbed a couch pillow and propped his right leg up on the coffee table, left leg joining it once it was settled, knocking the two pill bottles to the floor by accident, and relaxed into the leather cushioning. A quick channel surf turned up an episode of Fear Factor and he let the remote fall next to him, tired, lackadaisical, spaced.

* * *

Nine.

Wilson reached for the door handle again and hesitated before his hand could touch it. Dammit, he could do this. It wasn't hard. All he had to do was knock. It was all he could do. He'd considered calling first but decided that would be even more awkward. So he'd driven around for a while after he picked up the beer, wondering what he'd say. Clearly she hadn't called him, so he'd still be angry about the confrontation. If he only knew… But no. Better that he not know.

The blue light emanating from House's living room window told him that House was home. The light hadn't changed at all in the last half hour as Wilson sat across the street trying to work up the nerve to knock on his door. He hesitated so much because he couldn't stand to be rejected right now: it would be the last straw. He didn't know what he would do if he were handed another rejection right now. Maybe nothing. Maybe he'd replay last night's events with yet another woman. But whatever he did, it was a blow that he just couldn't take right now, and so he waited. Patient. Coward. Judas.

No, no, no. He could do it. He was making it more difficult than it had to be, sitting and worrying. But if House slammed the door in his face…

He sighed. This entire week had been a mistake. Well-intentioned but ill-wrought and now no one was happy. How easy it would be right now to put the car in drive and go anywhere else. Anywhere but here. And how impossible.

Dammit. House always did this. Always. And he always came to the rescue. But did he really want that to change? He made sense as a rescuer, savior of the condemned. In another life he'd have been a rabbi or a firefighter. As it was, he preferred science to religious faith and danger, but he was all-in as savior of the condemned. Send a patient home in total remission? Felt like maybe he _could_ make his life work after all. Politely decline an invitation to the wake of a patient he just couldn't save? Felt like he deserved what he got. It was always easiest to weather the latter when he was newly-wed and always hardest right before the divorce conversation. Right now he felt more dead than alive. But he wouldn't change it. He couldn't imagine it any other way.

He took a deep breath. _Just do it. Just get out of the car and do it, quickly, before you can change your mind. He'll have cooled off by now. He'll probably be bored. He probably won't mind the company. Sister-in-law in town tomorrow, two meals with her. The excuse is beyond reproach._

Yes. He would do it. He would do it now.

His hand shook slightly as he turned off the car's engine and opened the door. Raw, biting cold as he went to the passenger's side and collected the offerings: beer, snacks, movies. He locked the door and glanced up at House's window: television still on.

Quiet.

Wilson hesitated.

What if he was asleep?

No. No. It was nine p.m. on a Saturday: House wasn't asleep.

He made himself cross the street and climb the stairs before he could think better of it again.


	25. The Hours pt 2

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, guys. You sure know how to make an author feel appreciated. :) This long freakin chapter is finally done. Re: canon. Yep, this fic will conform to canon.

Odd-numbered chapters still Wilson's, even-numbered ones still House's, except for the long bit in the middle where they merge.

* * *

**The Hours pt. 2**

_Fear Factor's probably fixed like everything else_, House mused as he swallowed a Vicodin with some water.

His leg had stiffened in the nearly forty-five minutes he'd sat unmoving on his couch, slumped in front of the television, mind elsewhere. The female contestants were usually easy on the eye, though, and he felt he could participate in a show with a predetermined outcome without fearing for his soul if that was one of the conditions. He broke a Benadryl in half and swallowed it too for insurance purposes.

He jumped a little at a knock on his door. What? He hadn't ordered anything in his semi-conscious state, had he? Surely not. He had no idea where his phone was and he hadn't gotten so good at telepathy yet that he could summon delivery boys through brain power alone. Couldn't be a package he had to sign off on either: it was too late for packages to be arriving at his door. All of his neighbors knew to leave him alone. So who…?

The knock came again and he slowly got up, mindful of his leg, and limped to the door, glancing through the peephole.

Oh.

Duh.

The usual suspect.

He looked again. The usual suspect was nervous and had a few things with him. Hmm. Could be interesting. Why not?

His hand went from his cane to the locks before he could stop himself.

"Hey," Wilson said meekly, testing the waters out, relieved that House had opened the door. House didn't look angry. He didn't look like anything. A little tired maybe and pale but that was nothing new.

"What's up?" House asked glancing at the plastic bags Wilson had with him.

"Sister-in-law's coming in tomorrow," Wilson said. "I forgot all about it. Need a guy night if I'm going to survive." He held up a DVD. "I brought Major League."

House appraised him for a long moment. "And beer," he said noticing the six pack in Wilson's hand.

"And beer," Wilson repeated. It was the awkward moment at the door. God, he hated it so much. The moment before he was accepted or rejected. Took him back to picking up his prom date in high school. He tried not to squirm under House's intense gaze.

House scanned him again intently as though Wilson were a case file open before him. His eyes lit on Wilson's lip.

"Cute," he said, "we match."

Wilson's tongue flicked out to graze his own lip. He'd forgotten about that.

"I made sure he hit me in just the right spot," he said.

"Call me next Sunday—we'll wear matching shirts and ties to work," House said. "Everyone'll be _so_ freaked out."

"_Anything _to start the gay rumors again," Wilson responded, not yet smiling, not yet sure.

"Oh, how I've missed that," House said without missing a beat. "Everyone thinks I'm boffing Chase. _I _like being the pretty one."

"Bet you like being on top too," Wilson said, knowing he was in the clear now. He hefted the six pack. "Beer's getting warm."

House appraised him again quickly and nodded him in.

Wilson gathered up the plastic bag containing the popcorn, candy, and other DVDs and stepped in. He closed the door behind him wordlessly and took off his overcoat and scarf, offering House the beer.

House just looked at him.

Wilson looked back at House, wondering what was up. Cane in one hand and…oh. Whoops. He dropped the plastic bag and fished a bottle out of the pack to hand to House instead of the whole six pack.

He was relieved when House took it without a word or another intense gaze and turned toward the couch. Wilson went to the kitchen to put the rest in the fridge.

"So," he said coming back into the living room and tossing the snacks on the coffee table in the dim light of the television, "Major League, Groundhog Day, or Ray?"

"Groundhog Day?" House said from the couch, feet back on the coffee table as he picked a box of Milk Duds out of the bag. "You trying to mock me?"

"No," Wilson said settling into a chair near the couch. "Ray is mocking you. Groundhog Day just says 'hey, look at me, I'm Bill Murray.'"

"Don't knock pianists," House said as he opened the box, "we know scales and we're not afraid to use them."

"Ray it is then," Wilson said. "Pizza?"

"You're buying," House said with a shrug.

Wilson shrugged back. "The works?"

"Tell them I'm sending it back if they don't include the kitchen sink," House said popping Milk Duds into his mouth without bothering to chew. Stomach be damned, he was hungry and he liked Milk Duds.

Wilson glanced at him. "Save some of those for the popcorn," he said as House shoveled more into his mouth.

"Spoil sport," House said and put the box down.

Wilson glared at him and called in the order on his cell phone—no telling where House's phone was—then got up to put the movie in the DVD player. He grabbed a beer for himself from the refrigerator, slipped his shoes off and sank into a chair.

"So," House said from the couch as he tore into a bag of cotton candy, "the dreaded Camille."

"The very one," Wilson confirmed, pressing play on the DVD remote.

"No one's ever been that desperate to hook up with me before or since," House said reflectively through a wisp of cotton candy.

Wilson shrugged. "It's tradition. I think some hotels offer discounts now to the Best Man once the groom books the bridal suite."

House snorted. "I always considered the post-wedding encounter a thing of the hourly motel or the non-descript utility closet. Whichever's closest. Heat of the moment, you know." He popped a fluffy ball of purple sugar into his mouth. "Especially at your first wedding. I could've done so much better."

"Yeah, so could I," Wilson said with a snort. He paused to suck on his beer. Sister-in-law. Ugh. "Camille still holds it against me that you denied her her due."

"Tell her she can drop in any time," House said suavely, licking his fingers. "The doctor is in."

"Dude," Wilson said in disgust, "this is Camille we're talking about. Worse than Maid of Honor number one. What was her name? Susan? Sally? Whatever. Woof woof, what a dog."

House's hand paused in the cotton candy bag and he glanced at Wilson, brows furrowing bewilderedly.

Wilson saw his look. "You remember Camille, right?" he said. "Loud? Big hair? Bad dye job? Really obnoxious?" He snorted to himself. "Time hasn't smoothed _any _of that out. If anything, she's gotten worse. An absolute pest who'll be staying in my house until Thursday. What did I do to deserve this?"

House sat forward, dropping the bag. "_That's_ Camille! What about the hot one? The blonde. Tall. Cindy Crawford but without the mole. You know?"

"Cousin, I think," Wilson said. "You danced with Camille twice. How could you not remember her?"

"Shit," House said. "I must've gotten them confused. Which one kept hitting on me?"

"That was Camille," Wilson confirmed.

"What about the blonde?" House asked.

"I don't remember," Wilson said. "But Camille asks about you every time she's in town. It's disgusting."

"Oh my God," House said and shuddered.

"What?" Wilson said. "You weren't actually considering it, were you? I mean, desperation is one thing, but even a desperate man has standards."

"Well…no, of course I wasn't," House said. "Because—" _Stacy would've killed me_ "because I wasn't."

"You were!" Wilson accused. "You dog."

"It's tradition, like you said," House said with a shrug. "But—damn—I could've sworn the blonde was making eyes at me all night."

"I don't think so," Wilson said.

"Ugh," House said with a shiver. "Revolting." He picked up the bag cotton candy. "I need more sugar or I'll have nightmares."

"Good thing you didn't," Wilson said, "or I'd have to hear about _that_ every time she comes to town."

"I'm sure she'd have very positive things to say," House said smugly.

Wilson snorted. "Yeah and Julie would just love it."

House snorted back and tore into the other bag of cotton candy.

They watched the movie for a moment. Then, bored with the progression, House asked suddenly, "Was she hot?"

"Who?" Wilson asked, eyes on the screen as he drained his beer.

"Last night," House said. "Whoever it was. Hot?"

"Hot enough," Wilson said. "'Willing' gets more points than 'hot' after a while."

"She bust your lip for you too?" House asked, scooping the last of the cotton candy out of the bag.

"No," Wilson said. "Ex. Showed up when I was talking to her."

"And you did the chivalric thing," House said as he licked his fingers again.

Wilson shrugged a shoulder. "Got me laid."

"It's a lot to take a punch for a one-night stand," House said and let the second empty bag fall next to the coffee table.

"Maybe I had other reasons," Wilson said mysteriously and got up for a second beer.

House glanced at his. He'd drunk about a third of it. And not just because of his stomach. Tonight's pace was relaxed, he thought, not frantic. But a sister-in-law…well, he could understand wanting to try to drown that thought. He wasn't interested in scraping Wilson off of his floor tomorrow morning, though.

"Gonna sleep over?" House asked when Wilson returned. "I've got new footie pajamas I'm dying to show off."

"Why?" Wilson asked. "Someone coming over later?"

House shrugged. "Maybe."

Wilson glanced sideways at him. "If it's all the same."

House shrugged again. "Just wondering if I'll be on puke patrol tomorrow morning."

"Nah," Wilson said. "I have to be home by mid-morning or she fits me with a shock collar."

"I am so glad I'm not married," House mumbled into his beer bottle, just loud enough for Wilson to hear.

"Watch it," Wilson said, "or I'll make sure the next Maid of Honor is a transsexual."

"Low," House said, "very low." He gestured toward the television with the beer bottle. "When does this thing start to pick up?"

"Give it ten minutes," Wilson said. "If Ray Charles isn't mutated into a half-human, half-cyborg bent on destroying all of Manhattan by then, we'll call Hollywood and ask for our money back."

"Ruin the ending why don't ya," House snipped.

The doorbell rang and Wilson got up to answer it.

"Tip him well," House called after Wilson. "I have them conditioned—don't spoil it."

Wilson snorted, paid the kid, and came back with the pizza after he detoured to the kitchen for a third beer.

"Is that why he got here so fast?" Wilson said as he put the pizza on the coffee table a little closer to House's bare feet than he wanted any food he was going to eat to be and grabbed two slices. "I thought—you know, after your feud with Domino's—"

"They know that if they get here in under twenty minutes, they get a big tip," House said taking a slice out of the box. "And no, I haven't pranked them in a long time. Not since I changed my number."

Wilson shrugged. "They make better pizza anyway," he said around a mouthful.

"Mind your manners," House said, his own mouth full.

"Hey House," Wilson said after a moment, "do you like seafood?"

"No, but I bet you do," House said and stuck his tongue out, beating Wilson to it.

Wilson's pizza crust sailed through the air to hit House square in the chest.

"No fighting in front of the Oscar nominee," House said as he threw the crust back.

"You started it," Wilson said sulkily as he took another slice out of the box.

"And I finished it," House said, unable to resist another slice himself. So what if his stomach was burning? He could always sneak away and take another Benadryl. Probably shouldn't have gone through both bags of cotton candy so quickly, but it was so gooood.

He ate the second slice slowly. Wilson was on his fifth or sixth slice by the time House finished his second, but the Vicodin he'd taken was tangoing nicely with the half a beer he'd ingested and he was starting not to care if his stomach hurt or not.

Half an hour later, they both realized that the other was being curiously quiet.

Wilson, half-asleep after three beers and hours of running on the treadmill and with the dog, attributed it to the underlying surliness caused by House's unwillingness to forgive and forget. House, trying to hide the fact that his stomach was becoming more and more of a problem, attributed it to the fact that Wilson looked half-asleep.

Wilson stirred first, shaking himself as he sat up, and collected the remains of the pizza, just buzzed enough not to notice that it felt a little heavy for a pizza split with House. House palmed the bottle of Benadryl once Wilson was on his way to the kitchen and carefully got up.

Wilson returned with another beer and looked at him questioningly.

"Sometimes big boys need to go potty after they eat," House said patronizingly. "Fire up a tub of popcorn."

"How can you still be eating?" Wilson asked.

"Are you calling me fat?" House said vainly.

"Yes, Twig Boy, I'm calling you fat," Wilson said as he rolled his eyes and swigged his beer.

"Words hurt," House said with a mock snivel.

Wilson flipped him off.

House picked up a bag of uncooked popcorn and threw it at Wilson. "It's not a movie without popcorn," he said.

The bag hit Wilson, who was in mid-glug, and made him spill beer on his shirt. "Hey!" he said.

"You're the worst date ever!" House said dramatically. "I'm going to powder my nose!" He threw over his shoulder as he went, "There better be popcorn when I get back or I'm not putting out for you."

He heard Wilson grumble something.

"You men are all alike!" he called and slammed the bathroom door. As diversions went, he thought he'd done a good job.

Now he had a problem. Take a Benadryl and chance falling asleep on the sofa or wait it out and chance puking in front of Wilson again? Neither option was great. But the way Wilson was putting beer away, he might just get away with one or the other. He had to do something, though: his stomach was burning like mad.

He thought it over. He didn't feel too pukish. The Benadryl half he'd taken earlier must be working. The acid was killing him, though, so he dug around in his poor excuse for a medicine cabinet and came up with a bottle of expired Maalox. He shrugged to himself—probably couldn't hurt—and swallowed a healthy portion.

He sat on the toilet for a while, bowels aching now that they were forced to process food again, and waited as long as he could before he risked Wilson getting suspicious and coming after him. Feeling a little better, he drank some more Maalox and put the it and the Benadryl away, then flushed the toilet to make it seem like he'd been doing what he said he was doing, washed his hands, and left.

He wasn't too surprised at the sight that greeted him upon return: a bowl of freshly-popped popcorn on the coffee table where the pizza had been and Wilson snoring lightly in his favorite chair.

He smiled to himself and sat down to watch the end of the movie, carelessly munching on popcorn.

* * *

Midnight.

Expired Maalox wasn't a great idea after all. Probably a worse idea than popcorn on top of pizza. It certainly wasn't helping his upper-GI bleed. However, he felt confident that it would stop once he stopped blowing chunks. He found the anti-chunk blowing medicine in the cabinet and shook two out, pausing before he took them.

They meant sleep, too.

Wilson would drag his ass to the E.R. before he could even begin to argue if he found out.

But he probably wouldn't find out.

On the other hand…

No, screw it. He was tired and Wilson was comatose in his living room, so he could stand a few hours' sleep.

He brushed his teeth, swallowed the two Benadryl and another Vicodin, and limped off to bed.

* * *

One.

Wilson snorted in his sleep, shifted around in the chair, and started snoring again, utterly oblivious.


	26. Little Red Camaro

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews! I love 'em! Sorry the month of not updating this story. Time really got away from me. This isn't the end yet. I _do_ have an ending, I promise, as much as it seems like this is going nowhere. This fic will not be abandoned. :) Thanks again for the support, and to the people who asked about this story being updated, you're the reason why I'm updating it now. You pushed me to it! I would have taken longer otherwise (and produced roughly the same thing). Cheers for lighting the fire under my ass!

* * *

**Chapter 26: Little Red Camaro**

True to his word, Wilson was gone by the time House crawled out of his bedroom toward food and water.

It had become abundantly clear to him some time around three a.m. that the best thing by far to do was down two Benadryl the second something woke him and hope they kicked in before he was forced to leave his bed. On the whole, it had worked out well—no messes to clean up and enough Vicodin that his leg didn't bother him much—but by eleven-thirty he was hungry, feeling pretty good, and down to his last three Benadryl.

The problem of provisions remained. Except for Captain Crunch and a few odd canned items, the cupboard was bare.

A glance out the window confirmed that it had snowed a few inches overnight, and while the sun was out and patches of slushy mud broke up the monotony of melting snow, his building faced the side of the street that was shady in the morning: no dry sidewalks unless he wanted to cross the street. And he didn't want to cross the street.

Soup sounded great to him—soup with some warm bread and hot chocolate to follow—but the idea of leaving his snug apartment and relative peace for a taxi (he was too lightheaded to drive) was repulsive. The miracle of online grocery shopping with same-day delivery hadn't reached the Princeton area yet and Warren, his inside line at the local Superfoods who'd happily taken sizable payments to fill orders and deliver them in the two years after the infarction when Stacy was gone and he was too sick of having Wilson around to ask him to do the shopping, had graduated from high school and left his bagboy job for bigger and better things. Since then, House become savvy enough to buy in bulk and hadn't needed to replace Warren. Now, though, with nothing but stale cereal and artichoke hearts, he was annoyed at his lack of options.

Couldn't call Wilson. No—_wouldn't_ call Wilson. This was one of those times when a kid like Warren came in handy because he would not accept any more charity from Wilson for at least two weeks. He recognized that that probably meant one week, but in his mind, it was two weeks and that was that. He wasn't going to call Wilson. Period.

Cuddy would do it—she would bitch and moan but she _would_ do it—but then he'd have to deal with her sanctimonious grin or (worse than that) her concern for his well-being. Either way, she would never let him forget it, so she was out too. Not that she had ever really been an option. No way.

The idea of calling one of his staff to do his shopping for him was worse than calling Wilson. They didn't need to know what brand of toilet paper he preferred much less where he lived, and they certainly didn't need to know he was too ill to do his own shopping. That could only end badly.

Cameron would insist on putting him to bed and feeding him herself. She would have that _look_ with her and he would feel totally emasculated in addition to angry and embarrassed. The very thought of her spooning chicken soup for him made him nauseous. _Hell_ no.

Chase wasn't any better. He would stand awkwardly at the door going over receipts and apologizing if the store was out of something or didn't have the right brand, then he'd probably drop everything he tried to put away (because he would insist on putting everything away for House and glance sideways for a glimmer of parental approval), and after that, he'd stand awkwardly in the door again, not sure if he should stay or go. Not happening.

Foreman would leave the sacks in the hall, knock, and probably be in his car by the time House could get to the door. That made Foreman the best choice by far. Except for the fact that he'd have to put up with knowing that Foreman knew more about him than he ever wanted Foreman to know, as well as the knowledge that Foreman might do anything with that information. It wasn't the most incriminating evidence out there, but in the wrong hands untold destruction to House's rep could be wrought. At least Cameron and Chase would be up front with their thoughts—that is, their actions would betray their thoughts and feelings, and therefore their potential actions. Foreman had perfected stony silence and he'd proven by plopping that bottle of Vicodin under House's nose on Wednesday that he could act independently and without fear of reprimand from Big, Bad Papa House. Foreman was dangerous because he had the capacity to be dangerous.

So his staff was out. Especially Foreman.

That was everyone who would be willing to help.

He snorted to himself.

The angry, bitter, vitriolic cripple thing was working well: that was a short list.

It was always possible to ring up an escort service, but the idea of paying a hooker to do his shopping was too big a blow to his manhood in addition to being a real waste of money. Besides, he doubted most hookers—most of the really good ones anyway—could read or navigate a supermarket successfully. They were out.

There was always his cleaning lady, too, but he doubted that he could entice her to shop for him on a chilly Sunday. She wasn't his biggest fan and he had the sense that she was on the brink of giving her notice: he'd been rude to her on one too many occasions. He wasn't in any position to ask for a favor and he knew it. Money would make no difference. Like him, she had her pride.

None of the good delis in town delivered and most of the restaurants that did deliver didn't deliver before six p.m. Out.

That left the usual suspects: pizza and Chinese. Oh yummy. The too-recent memory of regurgitating egg drop soup didn't incline him to the latter, but that one memory was outweighed by many even more recent memories of upchucking the former.

Food was never supposed to make him dislike food, especially not the two classes of food that were his staple diet. It was a sick kind of hell he'd been thrust into.

Stupid Cuddy and her stupid bet. Meals on Wheels was beginning to look attractive.

He sighed and picked up the phone. Steamed white rice never hurt anyone.

* * *

"Where's your friend?"

Wilson tried to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. He cursed Julie for going to the bathroom and leaving him with her leech of a sister, but more than that, he cursed Camille for not going with Julie. Didn't women always go to the bathroom in packs? Why should he be stuck with the one exception to the rule?

He sighed inwardly, wishing the waiter hadn't already taken their order. "Which friend?" he asked, feeling obliged to say something.

"Greg," Camille said, smiling coyly and leaning in closer to him. "Is he still single?"

_He's gay. He's dead. He left town. I don't talk to him any more. I haven't seen him in months. He's got a girlfriend. He's married. He has a two-month-old daughter. He went to Uzbekistan to find himself. The idea of you sickens him. The idea of you sickens me_. _Please get the hell out of here before I strangle you_.

"He's taking a break from dating right now," Wilson said, knowing that whatever lie he told would get back to Julie eventually and even though they were already well beyond repair, he didn't want to heap on any more lies if he could help it. He wasn't that kind of guy.

"That's what you said the last time I saw you and that was over two years ago," Camille answered teasingly. "What are you hiding from me?"

"I'm not hiding anything," Wilson said. "He's having a hard time, that's all."

"I don't believe you for a second, James Wilson," she said and batted him playfully on the arm. "You just want him all to yourself."

He was taken aback at this: she was _flirting_ with him? Her sister's husband? _Flirting?_ With _him?_ No, this wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. _Why_ had he agreed to this? He owed Julie two meals' worth of respectable behavior. Okay. He could accept that. But with her _sister!_ It was inhumane to ask that of him.

He sighed and bit listlessly into a breadstick. "Seriously," he said, mouth full, trying to make himself as unattractive as possible. "He's been having a rough time lately." He shrugged and picked up his water glass. "The guy is married to his work anyway. Stays late all the time, never goes out with anyone, not even me. He's not a fun person. He's not good at having fun. Doesn't like it. Trust me, you'd hate him if you really knew him."

"Gee," she said with a roll of her eyes, "sounds like someone I know." She hit him again playfully on the arm. "Julie says you practically live at work. I know you think your work is important, but your wife is too. More important than your work. Much more."

She was teasing awfully close to him. He was beginning to feel it. Nature couldn't be put off in some cases, even when he was repulsed in all kinds of ways.

"See, you'd never get along with House," he said taking another sip of water. "He doesn't think that way."

"We're not talking about Greg," she purred. "We're talking about you. You don't treat her right."

Wilson recoiled. She was flirting with him, but she wanted to talk about Julie? Huh?

His first wife had had two brothers and they'd each come to him in turn and threatened him bodily when their relationship had begun to go bad and the 'd' word was in the air. His second wife had been an only child. He was new at this sister-in-law business, but he'd never in his worst nightmares imagined _this_ happening. Maybe Julie had gone to the bathroom alone and was taking longer than usual for a reason. She'd wanted Camille to corner him. Talk some confession out of him. Maybe she'd make one up if he didn't provide one.

Better go with admitting the semi-true one.

"I know," he admitted, head down for effect, dropping his breadstick.

"She's a good woman," Camille said, backing off a little. "She deserves better than you're giving her."

"I know," he agreed. "She's wonderful. I love her. I know I'm not as good at being a husband as I was when we were first married, but I'm trying."

"You're not trying very hard from what I hear," Camille said with a sniff.

Wilson hung his head. Sisters-in-law. Bad idea. Really bad idea.

"Well, what you hear is bound to be one-sided," he mumbled.

"The fact that you're not defending yourself very well tells me all I need to know," she pointed out, tapping her garishly long lime green fingernails against her water glass, _tick tick tick tick_.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said sincerely. "I've had a really hard week."

"What was so hard about it?" she asked, starting to purr again and move closer as if to say, _tell me and I'll make your troubles disappear. Five bucks for a quickie; twenty for the hour._

"It was just…hard," Wilson sputtered, unnerved by his wife's sister coming on to him in a public place. "I lost a patient," he lied.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "Is that it? Julie said you'd been staying all night."

Wilson shook his head. "House was having some trouble, too," he admitted. "Under the weather. He lets himself get really ill before he does anything."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed, throwing her head back.

"Knew what?" Wilson said defensively, recoiling.

She sat back on her haunches and twirled a straw between her luscious purple lips. Those lime green fingernails to top it off. Even Wilson knew that that was a serious fashion error.

"So listen," she said. "Are you sleeping with him?" She paused briefly, studying him. "I won't tell Julie, but I need to know."

Wilson was taken aback. "What?" he said. "Sleeping with him?" He expected this kind of thing from the gossips at work, but Julie's sister? What?

"You said he spends all his time at work," she pointed out, "well, so do you. 'He's taking a break from women.'" She sniffed. "That is such a lie. So are you sleeping with him or what?"

"Oh," Wilson said, realizing where she'd gotten the impression, "I can see how you might think that."

She nodded, something akin to anger flashing in her eyes. He hoped it was anger anyway. It might have been desire. _No!_

"No," he said in answer to her question, "I'm not."

"So you just don't love her?" she pressed.

"I do love her," Wilson protested. "I just… look, she knew how busy I was before we got married."

"Yeah," Camille said, "and you told her you'd change. You haven't changed. You don't love her."

"No, no, I do, I do," Wilson said sincerely. "And I did change, I tried to change. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"'This'?" she said angrily, "what 'this'?"

"This," Wilson said, gesturing to the conversation they were having. "Whatever she's told you. This distance between us. That's what we're talking about, right?"

"No, you lying son of a bitch, we're talking about you cheating on her," Camille snapped.

"I— What?" he fumbled. "That was a long time ago. We worked through it."

"We're not talking about that," she hissed. "We're talking about you cheating on her now. With him."

"What? Is that what you think?" he said incredulously. He could almost laugh. This was so inane.

"It's not what _I_ think," she said pointedly.

Wilson realized what she meant. "He's my friend," Wilson said. "I don't have sex with him."

"Then where are you getting it?" she growled. "You must be getting it somewhere."

"Oh, just because she doesn't want to, that means I'm cheating on her?" he said bitterly. "Just because she's frigid— that makes me unfaithful?"

"Like you have a great track record," Camille scoffed. "She says you're the one who's frigid. She got you that damn mutt hoping you'd lighten up," she added loudly.

"We're in public," Wilson hissed, "people are starting to stare."

"Don't want to ruin your reputation, do you?" she snapped.

"Listen, I don't know what she's been telling you, but I've been trying my best to make us work," he said in a low tone. "It isn't easy."

They both spotted Julie coming toward the table. Wilson tried to clear his face.

"You're obviously not trying very hard," Camille spat at him in a low tone when Julie wasn't looking, then she straightened her face too.

Julie was within earshot now.

"So are you going to give me Greg's number or do I have to snatch your cell phone to get it?" Camille asked in a syrupy, smitten voice.

Wilson stared at her in bewilderment.

"Greg?" Julie said sitting down. "Greg House?"

Camille nodded with a huge false smile.

"You don't want anything to do with that loser," Julie said.

She shot him a look that meant he was in trouble and changed the subject. He sat back in his chair and took a drink of water. What a day this was going to be.

* * *

Wilson considered that he probably had been happier to see his wife leave before, but he'd never been as relieved as he was now. Thank God for shopping centers.

Julie had taken him aside and told him he was free until 5:30, at which time he was expected to be parked in front of the mall's main entrance waiting for them with a dinner reservation. And the cuisine couldn't be the same kind they'd had for lunch. He'd made nice and backed away slowly when they seemed to be well on their way to the mall's entrance, dialing a local restaurant Julie loved and met the requirements she'd set out, and ordering a table for three.

He had a two beer limit tonight. Two glasses of wine if he preferred, which he didn't. She liked him to have wine when he was at a hospital function, but beer would be okay tonight. Not her first choice for him, but it would be acceptable.

He needed to add to that total before dinner if he was going to get through another round of Camille accusing him of committing adultery with his best friend. And maybe it was, he thought as he got into his car and turned toward House's apartment. Maybe spending all of his time with House instead of his wife was a kind of adultery. And maybe it didn't matter. What else was he supposed to do? He married, like he dated, with his dick. He was domesticated enough to go along on china pattern reconnaissance missions or to pick out drapes. Once or twice. But come on. It wasn't like he made her watch football with him. He knew she preferred to spend her time doing something else and he did her the courtesy of not putting her in a position where she'd have to choose between doing something symbolic and superficial for him that she didn't really want to do and doing something else that she liked. He felt like that was the kind thing to do.

And then there were days when she clearly won and football had no chance whatsoever. They had fewer of those days each year, but when they happened, he loved them. He loved her. He liked to bring her flowers. He liked to see her smile and hear her laugh. He liked to love her. She made him better than he was.

But then there were days like this one when he could do with several hours away from her. Today he could blame her sister for driving a wedge between them and he might sleep better tonight. He promised himself he wouldn't think too much about it.

Right now he needed time to himself…but he didn't like himself very much right now. This thing with House, this bet. What good had it done? Nothing. It had done nothing. Well, no, that wasn't exactly true. It had forced a real conversation out of House. His anger and bitterness boiled over for a moment, just a moment, but it was there and now that it was out, he could never really deny its existence again. It would always be there between them, like some of their really vicious fights from the early days of House's recovery still were. They wouldn't bring these issues up. Not really. It wouldn't be right.

But now House was messed up physically and angry at having his emotional issues brought out—justifiably so, Wilson thought—so what good had it really done? He could have picked a fight with House over how he still hadn't moved on from his last relationship and how he was destroying himself with drugs on any day when House arrived at work in a bad mood. He didn't have to use Cuddy to make him stop taking a drug that he obviously needed physically. He didn't have to cause him that much physical agony. _To break your own finger for pain relief…_

Rotten was quickly becoming his default mood. And yet, where else could he go? There was no where else he really wanted to be on a Sunday afternoon. It was either this or he'd go home alone and take the dog on a run and watch basketball. House would cheer him up just by being himself. That was better than the dog. He didn't feel like running with the dog anyway.

Wilson parked outside House's building and sat in his car for a while, engine off. The cold got in quickly and drove him up the steps and through the door and then he was knocking again. How many times had he done this in the last seven days? Far too many.

"Lunch didn't go well," House said.

Wilson's head snapped up. Had he knocked on the door? House had obviously answered. Wilson noticed he was wearing the same thing he'd been wearing yesterday. Was this a sulk? House didn't look like he was sulking. He hadn't shaved his stubble in a while either. Probably just lazy today. Well, if anyone had earned it, it was House.

"Lunch did not go well, no," Wilson echoed as he entered the apartment. "Next time I tell you I'm engaged, hit me on the head with something heavy…or hard...or sharp…whatever, as long as it's debilitating." He went directly to the refrigerator.

"You say that every time," House said going to the couch and taking his place next to a half-empty carton of white rice with a plastic fork sticking out of it.

"You never do it," Wilson called from the kitchen. He looked up from the refrigerator at House. "Do you have anything other than beer?"

"To drink?" House said. "No."

Wilson shrugged and picked up a bottle of imported, going to the chair next to the couch.

"I never do it because every time you always manage to convince me at the last minute that it would be a bad idea," House said.

"Which is why I tell you in advance," Wilson pointed out.

"But I'm not to be trusted," House said, "everyone knows that." He gestured toward the television. "Pick a game," he said. "Anything. As long as it's racing."

Wilson got up and dug through House's pile of video games. "I'm out of the loop," he said, picking one out and inserting the cartridge. He started the game, untangled the controllers, and handed the Player One controller to House.

"You look like hell," he said matter-of-factly, going back to his chair and scrolling through the characters until he found his usual guy.

"What did you expect?" House said, picking the reptilian thing with spikes that he always played. "I'm not going to get all dolled up for you."

They moved on to picking and calibrating their cars.

"Camille asked about you," Wilson said. He'd play the supercharged Camaro that he always played.

"Did you tell her where she could go?" House said. He picked his usual Corvette, also supercharged.

"No," Wilson said as they cued up to the starting line. "It morphed into this really weird conversation about how I'm a bad husband."

"Did _she_ tell _you_ where _you_ could go?" House asked, eyes on the screen and the light clicked down to green.

"She accused me of sleeping with you," Wilson said.

House's car moved over the line: false start. The game reset itself. Wilson smirked, glad House couldn't see him in the dim apartment.

The light turned green and their cars leapt onto the track.

"Trying to live vicariously, was she?" House said, concentration in his voice.

"Which means Julie thinks I'm sleeping with you," Wilson said, ignoring House's barb. He took the first series of turns smoothly, a few milliseconds behind House in time. Wilson always let him have the lead early.

"So?" House said, steering his car around a flaming tire and narrowly avoiding a spin out. "They all think that at some point. If you're the one with the problem, then it means they didn't screw it up. They're flattering themselves." He paused to jump a ramp on the course. "But it wouldn't hurt you to prove her wrong," he said. "You know… maybe sleep with her once in a while."

"You think I don't try?" Wilson said, hitting the controls harder than he should have in exasperation. His car lost a second to House's. "Why are you suddenly giving out marriage advice?" he asked defensively.

"You caught me on the one day of the month I'm not an asshole," House said. "There's Chinese," he added.

Wilson understood that House meant the food was on the table without House having to gesture to the table: neither of them was taking his eyes off of the game. But then again, he _had_ just put his nose in House's fridge.

The ran the rest of the race in silence. Wilson skidded against a flaming cactus and House hit a coyote, so they finished up almost even, House winning by a twentieth of a second. Wilson read his stats half-heartedly and pressed start to begin another game. When House didn't press start immediately too, Wilson glanced over at him.

House had put down his controller and was shaking his left hand in the air. "Gimme a second," he said, massaging the palm with his right forefinger and thumb. The frantic movement of the video game was catching up with him and he felt dizzy for a moment. He let out a long, deep sigh, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back.

"Don't give me that look," he said tiredly. "I'm allowed to feel like shit right now."

Wilson couldn't help himself—you glanced over at someone when they made that kind of noise out of general human decency.

"You were fine yesterday," Wilson said quietly. House knew exactly what he was thinking.

"I'm still fine," House said without opening his eyes. "You know as well as I do that it's going to be a few days before I'm back to a hundred percent or you wouldn't have asked Cuddy to give me time off."

Wilson started to protest.

"Oh come on," House said without moving or opening his eyes. "She'd never do it of her own volition. Not right after losing a bet to me."

"You underestimate her," Wilson said. "She came to me and asked me what I thought."

"And you told her," House said. "Thanks."

"Do you really want to go to work tomorrow?" Wilson said with an edge to his voice; Camille's behavior earlier had really bothered him and his kid gloves were starting to slip off, "because I'm sure that can be arranged."

"No," House said tiredly. "I just don't want anyone's pity." He opened his eyes and looked over. "That includes you."

He saw Wilson formulating a protest again.

"Don't give me any crap," House said. "I get to crash every so often. Now is one of those times. If you can't handle that, leave now."

"I thought you said you _weren't_ an asshole today," Wilson said.

"I was wrong," House deadpanned. He rubbed his forehead.

On one hand, he didn't want Wilson anywhere near him, for the same reason he hadn't called Wilson about doing his grocery shopping earlier. No more handouts. On the other hand, he knew he was sick and part of him was afraid he might pass out and aspirate or that the bleeding (which he was sure had stopped by now) might worsen and he might not be able to wake up. So while he didn't welcome Wilson, he didn't want to send the man away either.

"When are you due back at the Big House?" House asked, flexing his left hand again.

"Few hours," Wilson answered, drinking his beer.

House was moody today. When was House not moody? Wilson could tell today was an extra-moody day. Oh well. He couldn't exactly blame the guy. He was right: he did have the right to feel like crap while his body got used to the Vicodin again. Wilson remembered when he started taking it. The side effects were rough on him for a few days. This was no different. Add to that the poor physical shape he was in right now and Wilson couldn't blame him at all for being grouchy. For once, he was truly beyond reproach.

"We never finished watching Ray last night," Wilson pointed out.

"You mean _you_ didn't finish watching Ray," House said with a smirk.

Wilson rolled his eyes.

In truth, House hadn't finished the movie either. As soon as the heroin detox scene started, his stomach had done a back flip. He'd dropped the popcorn and quickly turned the movie off, breathing fast. He couldn't watch someone detox cold turkey right now. It was too fresh: the shaking, the pain, the sickness. The feeling of death stealing upon him. Much too fresh. He never wanted to feel that way again and he sure as hell didn't want to watch it acted out. Not ever. He hoped Wilson wouldn't ask to finish it. That was _not_ going to happen.

"Whatever," Wilson said. He glanced at the screen: House's stats were still on the top half of the screen with 'press start' flashing in red over them. He held up the game controller.

"You're not going to play me because your hand hurts, or you're not going to play me because you think you might actually lose a game for once—which is it?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh you are goin' _down_, little red Camaro," House said. He slammed the start button and initiated a complex series of commands to make the engine rev and his car bounce at the starting line. "You are goin' _down_."

"Show off," Wilson muttered, but his grin widened as the countdown began. This was exactly what he'd needed.


	27. Something Wicked

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** Hi everyone. So, it's been a while. I know. Moose, thanks for staying on me to work on this fic; that goes for everyone else who's reviewed or commented on this fic's status: having a review land in my inbox forcibly reminds me that I want to finish this fic and this time at least, you've got another chapter because you asked for it. It took so long to get this little bit done because I started teaching last week for the first time in my life and even though I only teach one class three days a week (freshman writing at a Big Ten university), the amount of preparation I have to do is astonishing. I spent the week before that in boot camp training to teach this course and it was exhausting. I'm also taking two classes in an attempt to get my PhD coursework done this year, which means lots of academic reading and writing, and once you add in the requisite 'welcome back' parties for the new semester and the hours of commiseration about teaching with my friends who are in the same situation, I haven't had any time left for fic. Now, this will all change in the next few weeks once I figure out how much prep I really need to do to teach – I understand it drops from hours of lesson planning and gathering materials to merely glancing at the syllabus five minutes before class – so neither this fic nor the two others are dead. However, I can't promise anything about when I'll get to update them. As of now, I've got most of a new chapter for Some Days and Thursday ready, but since this fic seemed to be the one people wanted to see updated the most, I went to it first. I hope to have it finished soon. So, there's my excuse for the big chunk of time between updates. Silly me for thinking that job, career, and life come before fic. ;)

Lastly, I wish I could give you something longer and meatier, but I decided it's better to give you something small than make you wait longer for something bigger. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this or any of my other fics - you guys remind me that someone is reading and waiting (im)patiently for an update. Cheers.

* * *

**Chapter 27: Something Wicked**

House saw Wilson out a little after five o'clock. He was fairly pleased with himself: an hour of video games, all 107 glorious minutes of Major League, and he'd managed not to take a Vicodin or throw up in front of Wilson. White rice seemed to have worked. But the second Wilson was gone and he'd closed his door, House scrambled as quickly as he possibly could to the coffee table and took two Vicodin and a Benadryl, swallowing them with relish and collapsing on to the couch in a tired, aching heap.

Both pill bottles had been out when Wilson had knocked. House had known who it would be—how could lunch with a sister-in-law possibly go well?—but he wasn't ashamed of anything and he'd be damned if he'd hide them in the couch like a teenager hastily stashing weed. He wasn't doing anything wrong and the bare fact that Wilson and Cuddy wanted him to feel like he was really angered him.

Wilson had behaved himself this afternoon, though. No mention of their conversation from Friday, no mention of the two bottles out on the table. House hadn't even caught him looking at them. Lunch must have been really bad for Wilson to be that passive.

House snorted. Julie thought he was boinking her husband. Hilarious.

He remembered when the rumor that they were sleeping together had started. One of them had had a really bad day, he didn't remember who, and wasn't too keen to go home to whichever significant other it was. This had have been over ten years ago. He couldn't remember if he'd been dating Stacy at the time, so it was probably Wilson who'd had the rough day and didn't want to leave. Wilson tended on the whole to have more rough days than House did by virtue not only of the high mortality rate in his specialty but also of his giving a crap about his patients. His habit of marrying the same person over and over again probably had something to do with it too. This must have been one of those 'my patient is dead and she can't really understand what that does to me' nights. The pre-Stacy, post-honeymoon with wife #2 era had spawned several nights like that when neither of them could face going home to a dwelling devoid of love or warmth. On this particular night, as on most nights, alcohol had somehow gotten involved and in a short time, it was clear that no one was going home under his own power. This must have been in Wilson's office, too, because House remembered sleeping on a couch and he never kept a couch in his office. Or had he slept in a chair? He didn't really remember. It was that kind of night.

What he did know was that they had eventually come to in Wilson's office, one on the couch, one in a chair and—this had been the moment—they left his office together to swipe some fresh coffee from a morning shift or grab some of the cafeteria's unique sludgy brew. Wilson's nosy staff had started the rumor and within a week, they'd each been asked by different people on separate occasions how long they'd been dating and whether they were "out" or not. He'd found it funny then and he found it funny now. Wilson had been jittery at first, worried that his already-estranged wife or parents or ex-wife or anyone at all would hear about it and believe it was true, but House agreed to testify at any future divorce hearings about the non-sexual nature of their relationship and he'd lightened up.

The rumors stopped when he started dating Stacy. When…_it_ happened…after going home, the fights, the silence, the sincere attempts to salvage something that had gone irreparably wrong, living together without being together, trying to make something happen in the bedroom and failing miserably, night after night speaking through gritted teeth or not speaking at all, and finally giving up, Stacy leaving town, leaving the hospital…after he'd somehow returned to work and the fact that they'd called it quits had circulated…after the false starts and mishaps and _looks_ and _sympathy_, and after he'd put them off…just after he'd had an inevitable accident leaving work and Wilson had insisted on driving him home everyday…once that had gotten around, the rumors started up again. The fact that Wilson was newly-married to Julie, having been ditched by wife #2 before _it _had happened, didn't put off the rumormongers. In a way, the rumor was a blessing: it gave people something to talk about other than his leg or his breakup or his miserable life. They thought he was sleeping with Wilson: _great_. Being known as the guy who slept with Wilson, the brilliant, compassionate oncologist, was so much better than being known as the poor cripple who'd blown it with the brilliant, beautiful Stacy and chased her out of town. The rumor had waxed and waned since then but it remained a favorite of the staff. House almost wished it were true, because if it was true, that meant he was getting laid. He wouldn't mind getting laid. Not at all.

Getting laid with Wilson as a participant, though. That was another matter. He was of the opinion that Wilson would get needy pretty quickly in a sexual relationship and he hated needy. He liked smart and aggressive, and he couldn't imagine Wilson being an aggressive lover. He'd considered all of this before, of course. He'd done his share of experimenting in college, too, and found that guys just didn't do it for him. It simply wasn't there. He knew all about the wonders of a stimulated prostate gland, more from the fact that he'd never come away from a prostate exam without a demanding erection than from a purely medical perspective, but it still just wasn't there. He felt a boring in a way, living in such fast and furious times and not being at least bi-sexual. He considered himself open to the possibility—especially given what statistics said about most other mammals' sexuality—but he couldn't imagine it working for him. Something about the lack of squeezable breasts and curves…

If it ever happened that Wilson was really desperate and the situation was right, though, House could see his way to letting him watch. Or have sloppy seconds; it depended on the situation. That was the decent thing to do. He'd expect the same in return. Alcohol and never speaking of the event again were requisites. Neither of them had ever been _that _desperate, though, and if it hadn't happened by now—after two messy divorces on Wilson's side and a soul-crushing break-up on House's side—it probably wasn't going to happen.

Relationships. Goddamn them. Forty-five, grizzled, and walking with a limp wouldn't cut it on the dating scene. Never mind his abrasive personality and inability to put up with the inevitable bullshitting dating seemed to require of most people. And who could be out there for him? Stacy had been so...perfect…so _right_… How could he ever have that again? He'd simply lived too much: the idea of sharing his life fully and wholly with someone new, including the necessary sharing of his past, horrified him. No one he met now could ever really understand the devastation of that…that day…that year…that time…of _that_. God, he couldn't even enunciate it to himself: how could he possibly make someone else comprehend it? He didn't _want_ anyone else to comprehend it. That was the real issue. He wasn't a wounded hero; he didn't need sympathy; he didn't need pity. He wouldn't—_couldn't_—talk someone through it. Living it the first time was bad enough. He didn't want to think about it at all.

And Stacy. Oh how he wished he could stop thinking about her. Thinking about her was as difficult, painful, and useless as hauling a dead leg around all the time. He didn't need a proverbial albatross around his neck: he had one attached to his hip; that was more than enough. Of course it was too reductive, too easy to conflate the two. And as connected as they were, he tried hard not to associate Stacy with the leg or vice versa, because the leg was never going to go—he'd be damned if he had it removed after this much time and effort—and if Stacy and the leg were one and the same, then Stacy would never go either and he couldn't live with that. He couldn't carry her around all the time. He _wouldn't_.

He sighed to himself, sinking against the couch cushions. All this thinking. All this damnable thinking. _Why _was he thinking so much? _Why _about Stacy and relationships and his depressing personal life? It was that dream a few days ago, when he'd been, ugh, held captive and given glucose through a straw by Mother Hen Wilson, building volcanoes out of jello and waiting on a decomposing feline. She had been too real in that dream. He could smell her and taste her, nearly touch her then, and now the mere thought of those sensations brought them back in full force. _God_. His groin began to stir at the memory—_No._ Traitor. Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts. Digging through the dead cat and _that _smell. He put a hand on his stomach; the memory of that smell had not only killed his groin but it was stirring other things as well. Maybe that was overkill. Stinking dead cat. He swallowed against a bad taste in his mouth. Ugh.

Tired again. He lifted his leg on to the couch and gave in to the pull of gravity, rubbing his stomach. That was better. His body was still sore from the week: he'd pushed every muscle in his body to keep himself upright and moving, and he was paying for it now. A long, hot shower sounded nice, but not moving from his current position sounded even nicer. He picked up the remote and flipped around aimlessly. Basketball game, Sleepless in Seattle, local news, Simpsons rerun, basketball game, church channel, When Harry Met Sally, commercial, commercial, As Good As It Gets, CNN, Hitler, news channel, news channel, commercial, Titanic, American Chopper, basketball game, Casablanca, commercial. Romantic movies? Why? Oh. Valentine's day last week. Great. Just what he needed to be reminded of. He found the Home Shopping Network and put the remote down. Something about the peddlers' tone of voice lulled him into a glazed stupor if not all the way to sleep.

So he'd saved another life. Whoopie. It was a rush—it was always a rush to snatch someone from cold hands of death—but if his life was only about saving other lives, he'd turn into Wilson and begin operating on the asinine assumption that if he saved just one more life, his life would suddenly become more meaningful. That worked for Wilson: it worked because Wilson's self-worth was tied up in how other people saw him. Wilson needed to be the nice guy in order to like himself. Life didn't work that way for House. His job didn't help him sleep better at night. What he needed to do to sleep better at night…he wasn't sure he could do it. He wasn't sure he wanted to even try to do it. Even if he found someone and the chemistry was right—it might last for years, but in the end, she would only hurt him. He knew it. No matter how certain a relationship seemed, it would end and he would feel the betrayed, bitter sting that still kept him up at night all over again. He couldn't handle that again—the fresh stab of betrayal. Even it he had something he was so certain about, it would end. Everything ended. Better to have loved and lost? Better to take yourself out of the game before it kills you.

He sighed again and cursed Cuddy for putting him out of commission like this and forcing him to be alone with himself. Moping was not his style. He was boring himself to sleep. Either that or the Benadryl and Vicodin combo plate was kicking in. Wilson, in an act of quintessential Wilsonness, had silently refrigerated the Chinese food before it could spoil, so he had food. But he wasn't hungry. His stomach had been burning for a while—this peptic ulcer wasn't playing nice—but he felt okay. Almost good. Certainly decent. Sleepy. Fulfilled. Better.

If he could just keep his thoughts from straying long enough, he'd be able to sleep again. Sleep would be nice. Vicodin was beginning to dull the aches and pains of the week. Lying down helped that too. Something—probably both the Vicodin and the Benadryl—was encouraging him to embrace weariness.

He settled into a comfortable position and turned his head toward the television.

"This beautiful, hand-crafted diamond tennis bracelet retails for over five hundred dollars but as part of today's special, you can get it for the low price of $299. If you call in the next ten minutes, the shipping is free! That's right, we'll ship it to you for free if you call in the next ten minutes. We only have a few of these gorgeous bracelets left, so call now! Jenny is modeling this one-of-a-kind gem today…"

Jenny looked pretty damn good in that low-cut blouse, the bracelet glittering in the studio lights. House's eyes fell closed with the image of Jenny still there. She would make a nice dream. Yes. Sweet sleep. The television voices were fading. Sleep. Sleep for a long time. Yes.


	28. Trouble

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** It's been a long time. Apologies! My goal is to finish this fic over the winter holiday break. I really hope I can make that happen. This 'chapter' is really just a scene taken from a larger set of scenes that aren't yet finished. Cohesion becomes difficult the further one gets into a fic – at least for me.

Thanks for sticking with me despite the complete lack of updates for some three months. Flames at this point would be, I think, deserved. —sheepish—

* * *

**Chapter 28: Trouble**

"He's doing okay as far as I can tell," Wilson said into the phone. He listened for a moment. "I was over there today," he said. He grinned. "I'll keep an eye on him." He listened again. "Wednesday for a follow-up x-ray?" he repeated. "I'll tell him but I doubt he'll come." He smiled again. "Okay, I'll pass that along. See you tomorrow. Bye."

"So _that's_ where you were today. With your _boy_friend."

Wilson jumped and whirled around. Camille, damn her. Julie's car was gone when he got home; he'd assumed Camille would have gone with her.

"Yeah," he said, trying not to look guilty. He replaced the phone and tried to get past her. She blocked his way.

"Who were you talking to?" she asked, smacking her gum. "Not a girlfriend I hope." She was clearly trying for coy, but kept hitting more of a sneer.

"No," Wilson said uncomfortably. "My boss."

"Is he in on it too?" she asked.

"Who?" Wilson asked. "My boss? No."

"So why you talking to him on a weekend?" she asked.

"Her," Wilson corrected. "House has been sick lately. He had a bad week. She was checking on him."

"She can't call him herself?" Camille asked innocently.

Wilson shook his head. "She wouldn't be able to get anything out of him."

"But you can?" Camille asked.

"He won't tell me anything either but at least he lets me into his apartment," Wilson said with a shrug.

Camille stared blankly at him for a moment. "You know how weird that sounds, right?" she said bluntly.

"Yeah, well, House is weird," Wilson answered.

She stared at him, not believing a word. And she wasn't moving to let him by.

Wilson sighed. "Okay," he said. "Here's what happened. Last week, Lisa—that's my boss—made a bet with him, that he couldn't go a week without taking any Vicodin. He takes it for his leg—I don't know if you remember, but he had an accident a few years ago that left him with chronic pain—" Camille nodded, "but the problem is, he abuses it. So we made a bet with him. He won but he went off of it cold turkey—have you ever tried to quit smoking?" she nodded again, "it's like that, but it makes you more physically sick—anyway, he was sick all week but he kept working and made himself worse. I wanted to admit him to the hospital but he wouldn't let me—it was that bad." He paused a moment to let the tale sink in. "So I've been checking up on him to make sure he's all right."

She stared blankly ahead again.

"Wait a second," she said after a moment. "You bet a guy who's addicted to painkillers that he couldn't go a week without taking them when he's not just an addict but he takes them for a real reason?"

Wilson nodded shortly, aware of how bad that sounded.

"That's really sick," Camille said. "What'd you bet him, a car or something?"

"He hates working in the hospital's walk-in clinic," Wilson said. "_Hates _it. Hates it enough that he'd agree to do this if he got a month off from working in it if he won."

"So you and your boss let this guy off work for not taking his medicine for a week?" Camille asked incredulously.

Wilson nodded, Camille's reaction beginning to really embarrass him.

"Jesus, I didn't know my sister'd married such a creep," Camille said matter-of-factly, still smacking her gum.

Wilson sighed. "He knows he's addicted but he won't get treatment." He scratched the back of his head and half-shrugged. "We had to do something and betting is one of the few things he takes seriously. Consider it an intervention."

"So, what, he's got a gambling problem too?" Camille sniffed. "Great crowd your run with."

"It worked," Wilson said. "He didn't want to admit he was addicted, but this got him to."

"So he admitted it? But you said he wouldn't get treatment. So you just made the poor guy suffer."

Wilson, unable to do anything else, nodded shamefully.

"And now you're checking up on him because you feel bad or what?" she asked.

"He doesn't take care of himself," Wilson said.

"So somehow that's _your_ job?" she asked disdainfully.

Wilson shrugged. "Someone has to do it," he said. "Anyway, he's fine. Taking it easy."

"Well, jeez, good to know," she said.

"Where's Julie?" Wilson asked.

"She went to the grocery store to pick up a few things," Camille said. "She'll be right back."

"You two didn't stay out very long," Wilson said. "Did the stores close early?" He couldn't keep the bite out of his voice.

"None of the spring clothes are out yet," Camille answered idly, examining her nails.

"Too bad," Wilson said. He tried to get past her again. She let him this time.

"I'm going to take the dog out," he said over his shoulder.

"I already did," Camille said indifferently, still appraising her nails. She glanced up.

At Wilson's look of confusion, she added, "Julie wanted me to stay here to make sure he got to go out of he needed to. She said he's been having accidents and she didn't know whether you would be back soon or not." She flung a disdainful hand in his direction. "Why don't you go apologize to your boyfriend," she suggested. "Kiss and make up."

Wilson glowered at her. "I think I'll take the dog on a jog if it's all the same to you."

Camille sniffed. "Far be it from me to separate you and your best friend," she said.

Wilson said nothing, turning around and letting the anger and annoyance he felt show on his face instead. A litany of curses ran through his head as he called the dog and took his jogging jacket out of the closet.

Oh, how he wanted to tell her he knew her sister was cheating on him. It would feel so good to shove it in her face, that her sister wasn't perfect, that he wasn't always the one who screwed up. God, it would be so good.

But then they'd fight all night—he and Julie, and Julie and Camille, and maybe he and Camille too—and then he'd have to deal with Julie being livid for exposing her in front of her sister and he'd _never_ hear the end of it. No peace, no quiet, and definitely no sex.

So he wouldn't say anything. He'd take the dog and try to outrun his anger. They'd go to dinner and he'd be quiet and let them pick on him and House, then he'd be free to bury himself in work until the louse in-law left. Maybe he'd even get a good behavior hand job out of it, or sex if she was getting bored with her lover. The peace and quiet alone would be worth it, though.

He had less than half an hour of daylight left, but the dog was restless, hopping and yapping as Wilson showed him the leash. He'd make the most of it.


	29. Bloody Monday

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** Thanks for not flaming me! Leaving you here, though… —ducks—

* * *

**Chapter 29: Bloody Monday**

House sighed heavily as he sank on to his bed. In his fist were two Benadryl tablets. The last two he had. And he needed them. Crap.

It was almost midnight. Stomach pain had roused him over an hour ago and he, attributing the pain to hunger, had scarfed the remaining rice that Wilson had been so kind as to refrigerate. Predictably, it had come up again with a fair amount of blood less than ten minutes later. That was quick. Really quick. Too quick. And there was too much blood. If he took the two Benadryl he had in his hand now, he'd probably sleep for a few hours, but when he woke up…well, this problem wasn't going away like he'd thought it would.

What a rotten weekend.

He sighed again, placing the pills on the rumpled bed spread so he could rub his face, and weighed the possibilities. As much as he hated it, he realized he would have to get some form of treatment for this if it didn't go away soon. Which it would. But in case it didn't, maybe he should have some sort of plan of action.

Clinic. He would _not_ go to the clinic. Absolutely not. Not going to happen. The sheer irony of it would kill him. He couldn't face Cuddy and her sanctimonious smirk. Nuh-uh. Not happening.

That left fighting to get an appointment with someone in a private practice or the ER. Neither appealed to him. He didn't want to fight with secretaries and the odds were that whatever monkey he got stuck with would want to do a bunch of stupid tests first. It would be slower and he'd have to deal with more morons than he wanted to deal with under any situation, never mind a situation where he actually _needed_ the morons to do something for him. ER. The ER was faster, but if he went there he risked a fight over admission. This was the kind of thing that some idiot intensivist would want to bring a surgeon in on and that wasn't going to happen. If got desperate enough to end up in an ER, it would only be for a round of platelets and maybe a pint of blood—that was it. He didn't need anything else; he certainly didn't need any surgery. But it would come up, he knew. In the current age of litigation run amok, it would certainly come up. And he'd have to put time and energy into combating it. No thanks.

There was always the option of showing up at one of the offices in Gastro, but he hated all of them and he'd alienated the whole department last year over something he couldn't really recall. Probably petty. Even worse, Cuddy would surely get wind of it and would manage to find him before he could leave the building. Not happening either. Never even an option. In fact, as long as he was weighing alternative options he'd never take, Wilson could fix this easily, eliminating the need for other people. But then he would have to deal with Wilson and he just didn't want to do that right now. He'd spent too much time in hell with Wilson lately. No matter what happened, Wilson wasn't going to hear about this until it was just another story and not something that was happening in the here and now. In that case, he reasoned, if he ended up dragging himself to an ER, it was going to be Princeton General's ER.

He scooted up the bed and swallowed the last of the Benadryl with as little water as possible, making a face. He sighed and put the water aside, kicked at the covers until they were out from under his bad leg and he could grab them and pull them up, and lay back on a nest of pillows. It felt good, lying down, even if he had been sleeping for the past month. He was still tired.

Maybe it would go away on its own, the bleed. His blood was normal, he knew. It would clot and heal. Yeah. Heh. He smiled wryly: if his body was good at anything, it was clotting. So he would give it a few hours. And if it was still a problem later, he'd call in another prescription for Benadryl and have it delivered. He could wait a few hours more and probably a few hours after that. It would go away with time. And anyway, he had the strength of a new-born kitten right now and he just didn't feel like negotiating the bus and the weather to let a bunch of ill-informed cretins tell him what he already knew. He had a peptic ulcer and it was bleeding. Stop the bleed, give him some antibiotics, tell him to stay out of Mexican restaurants for a while, send him on his way. Boring.

Okay, it was slightly more complex than that, but he still knew what would happen and he was bored by it. So tired too, he was so tired.

He knew he'd regret it later, but he wanted to curl up on his side, so he moved the pillow that was normally under his right leg to his left knee and rolled over onto it, grunting with the effort. His leg protested but his stomach cheered him. Yeah, he was tired, really tired. But this way he wouldn't aspirate either. ...not that it was even a concern, because the bleeding would stop. He'd just sleep a while and the bleeding would stop...


	30. Persistence

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** More. :)

Knight Wild – yep, torturing House is what I do best. Kinda sick and twisted, I know, but he brings it on himself most of the time. And it's fun. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 30: Persistence **

Wilson paced in his study. 2 a.m. He couldn't sleep.

Head on his paws, the dog's brown eyes followed him back and forth and he wagged his bushy tail, sensing his master's unrest. He whined occasionally.

Wilson's hands ran up and down his forearms. The undershirt he was wearing wasn't doing anything against the cool first floor of their home but he didn't want to sneak upstairs to grab a robe. Camille's disgust with him earlier hadn't let up by the time the three of them went to dinner and as much as he didn't like her, he was bothered by the way she was treating him. Because she was right. It was a shitty thing to do to a friend.

Cuddy had been worried earlier. He'd said House was all right but they both knew House was never all right. He would need the entire week to recover and Wilson knew how quickly House got bored. He'd probably be back at work as soon as he could stand to be. Wednesday was Wilson's conservative bet. It would probably be more like Tuesday.

But he'd been able to tell that House wasn't feeling well this weekend. Okay, that wasn't quite it. House had looked sick and hadn't acted quite well enough to convince Wilson that he was back to normal. Not that going back to normal was possible for him after only two days back on his meds. He wasn't healthy by a long shot.

But Wilson still felt, as he'd said to Cuddy on Friday, that he'd done enough damage. House would only snap if he felt smothered and it took almost nothing to make him feel smothered. The trick was to play it as if he, Wilson, were the one who needed help. The sister-in-law trick had worked well—and to a greater extent than he'd like to admit, it hadn't been a trick—but he knew he could only use it once more before House became irritable and stopped answering phones and doors. And after that…well, he'd run out of tricks a long time ago.

He didn't know what to do. His head told him that House was fine. Still nursing a bruised ego from their spat on Friday and adjusting to full-time pain meds again, but healthy. Or as healthy as he ever got. But he had a feeling that House was hiding something from him. He had this feeling all the time, but the past few days had exacerbated it. It was _bugging _him. So was having the in-law stay over. So was Julie's new boyfriend. So was his own recent indiscretion.

He sniffed to himself as he paced on the carpet. Everything was bugging him. Maybe House was right about him exhibiting PMS. But he was irritable for a very good reason.

He sighed to himself. He was no good at feeling guilty. He should just tell House and be done with it. House wouldn't speak to him for days if he did, but if it meant sleeping at night…

But, he sighed again, he couldn't do that until his intuition about House's health was dispelled. He'd have to hold his last sister-in-law card close to his chest.

Work. He didn't want to go to work. He didn't want to do anything but resolve this. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

The dog whined at him and he stopped pacing to glance down. Charlie's tail swished back and forth, thumping against the corner, and he whined again, his brown eyes searching Wilson's for some indication that his master would play.

"Yeah," Wilson said to the dog. "I know."

The dog whined again and his tail thumped harder.

Wilson lowered himself to the floor and the dog leapt toward him, licking his face furiously. Unable to stop himself, Wilson laughed a little and rubbed the dog's shaggy back.

Camille said Julie had gotten him the dog to make him more affectionate.

Well, he mused, it had worked. He certainly cared about the dog.

If Julie would only pounce on him and start licking his face, then he'd show her how affectionate he could be.

The dog curled around his feet as he sat cross-legged on the floor. He rubbed the dog's head and tried not to think about anything.

* * *

House woke again, sick, a few hours later. The effort of it made him lightheaded. He'd already lost more blood than he should have and, he sighed to himself because he had to admit it now, it wasn't going away.

It was, he checked his watch, five a.m. That ruled out the clinic and the private practice apes.

But he didn't want to go to PPTH's ER. It wasn't that he knew too many people; it was that too many people knew him and he knew exactly how much those people liked to talk. He'd set them sniffing on a falsified rumor every now and then and sit back and watch it circulate, finally coming back to him in a delightfully twisted fashion. It was better than playing Telephone in fourth grade because the teachers wanted to show them that gossip was an ugly thing. Some of his best ideas came from elementary school. So he knew PPTH's rumor mill too well. That left Princeton General.

Oh joy. But maybe he could be in and out quickly enough that the rumor wouldn't get around to PPTH for a week or so, by which time he could categorically deny it or think of some fun way to lead them on. He would go there. Oh jumping Jews for Jesus joy, what a day this was going to be.

He hauled himself out of bed. His first stop on waking up was always the bathroom. He didn't remember what it felt like to wake up without the plague of stiffness and sore muscles. Steam and heat were his first priority. Today, though, his leg wasn't bothering him too much. He'd spent too much time on his back recently and he was still getting a minor buzz from the Vicodin, so he could forgo a shower right now—all of his energy, he knew, should be focused on getting out the door, on the bus or in a taxi, and some place he could buy a pint of A negative before this stubborn condition dropped him—but he promised himself a long soak and a generous portion of Bengay when he got home. He glanced longingly at the deep tub…no. Not now. But what should be happening now wasn't happening…great. Dry as a bone. He'd be sure to order up a side of saline with his A negative main course.

Giving that up, he shuffled toward his dresser and pulled out the thickest sweatshirt he could find without really digging. One of the blue Michigan hooded sweatshirts he'd somehow acquired over the years. Warmth was all that was really important right now. Let the Ivy brats look down their noses at him. His Big Ten powerhouse school could always rip them to pieces in sports and everyone knew sports was the only important area of college life. He shrugged the sweatshirt on over the Molly Hatchet shirt he'd slept in and decided to leave the sweatpants he had on.

Shoes. Supportive as Nikes were, he had to bend over to tie them and he didn't think he could manage that right now. He spotted a pair of slip-on loafers and struggled into them, holding on to the closet door with both hands to maintain his balance.

Into the living room. Vicodin. Wallet. Keys. Overcoat. Scarf. Gloves. Hat. Ready.

He paused at the door and sighed heavily. He _really_ didn't want to do this. It would be so much easier to call Wilson and let him take care of it. Wilson would answer all the questions for him and ensure that he got what he needed quickly and was allowed to leave without a fuss. So much easier.

But Wilson would also bitch him out for keeping this a secret and probably spend the entire week hovering, checking up like he'd been doing this weekend. The sister-in-law was a good excuse, but House knew when he was being conned.

No, if he called Wilson now, he'd be looking at a week of constant phone calls and visits.

Or worse.

Admission.

He wouldn't put it past him, not after the way he'd acted last week.

That wasn't going to happen.

House drew himself up as best he could and left his apartment before he could change his mind. He locked the door, dialed a cab company, and settled against the wall in the foyer to wait for the cab.

What a great day this was going to be.

* * *

Warm. Wet. What?

Wilson woke up with a start, realizing the dog was licking his face. And that he was on his side on the floor of his study, every joint aching. How had that happened?

He pushed the dog's face away and sat up. The dog whined and pawed the carpet. It was dark outside still but Wilson sensed that twilight was on its way. What a way to start a Monday.

He groaned with self-pity and picked himself up, stretching and trying to shake the stiffness out of his neck and left side. He was too old to sleep on the floor.

Yawning and rubbing his face, he let the dog lead him to the back door.

Almost six a.m. on the microwave clock. He was up a little late today but he'd be at work in time for rounds. Then…a long day of work. He'd need a nap or two to make it. And when it was over, would he invent some excuse to drop in on House? He still had one sister-in-law excuse left.

He should call. He picked up the phone before he could think about it, mind flashing excuses.

Did you see the Nets game last night? I can't find my keys—did I leave them there? My wallet, my hospital i.d., my gloves—can't find them. Did I leave Ray there? I need to take it back or I'll have to pay a late fee. Julie won't touch me—can I borrow one of your videos? Don't mind me, just making sure you're not dead…

No. All of those were really lame. The Ray excuse might work, but he'd dropped it off at the video store yesterday and he knew he wouldn't be able to pull off the lie in front of House—or on the phone to House—especially because it was six in the morning. The keys/i.d. might work. Six a.m. was exactly when he'd misplace his i.d. It made sense.

No. He put the phone down. He wouldn't worry so much. House was fine.

But the i.d. excuse _would_ work.

He grabbed the phone and punched in House's number before he could think about it. House wouldn't answer on the first round of rings. He'd leave a message. That was completely innocuous.

The machine beeped. "Hey," he said, "it's me. Can't find my i.d. for work. I think it fell out of my pocket when I was over there yesterday. Give me a call soon—need it back this morning. Um, call my cell. Bye."

He hung up. There. That was easy. He'd kept his voice even, the message short.

Scratching on the back door. The dog shook snow off of his coat when Wilson let him in. Good thing House wasn't going to be out in this crap.

He found his cell phone, made sure it was on, and took it upstairs with him to shower, doing his best not to worry.


	31. Gravedigger

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** Poor House. Just can't get a break. Hope you like and sorry for the cliffhanger! —ducks behind flame-proof shield—

* * *

**Chapter 31: Gravedigger**

House stumbled toward the ER entrance—good thing too, because even his good knee was beginning to feel rubbery—and suddenly wished that he had gone to PPTH. Now he'd have to fill out a form, wait to go to triage, wait after triage, all of it taking too long. At PPTH he could talk to the attending; he may not even have to go that far. Could be one of the nurses would recognize him and cheerfully whisk him back, get him treated, and send him home. But he was here already and wasn't entirely sure he could make it back across town. So he sidled up to the check in area and requested their damned form.

He longed to sit down—his legs weren't holding him up very well—but if he took the form to a seat, he'd have to get back up and deliver it and that would be a bitch.

Instead, he hung his cane on the counter, shifted his weight to his left side, and started scribbling. All easy questions: name, rank, serial number. He hesitated on his name. To add that telling prefix/suffix or not? Doing it would certainly speed up the rumors, but not doing it would mean being treated like a layman. He didn't like either of them. And standing there thinking about it didn't help. He sighed and filled out the rest of the form quickly, requested an emesis basin, and settled into the first chair he saw, wishing he had the strength to rearrange the seating so he could put his leg up.

The ER was nearly empty.

A Hispanic woman with a baby, fussing over it like mad. He caught a glimpse of the kid. Two months old, snot on his face, a little feverish, but moving around like a two month old kid should. Kid has a cold, lady, take him home and give him some baby Tylenol, build his immune system up. That's _why_ kids get sick. And for God's sake, don't ask for any antibiotics.

Next? Older guy with a handkerchief pressed against his forehead and dried blood on his face. Sullen, sleepy looking younger guy with him. Scalp lac. Do a quick neural, ask a few questions to make sure no one's trying to off him, especially the sleepy guy, stitch him up and let him leave. Scut monkey stuff.

Young girl, fourteen or so, very nervous. Why would she pick five a.m. on a Monday to find out either that she was pregnant or that hospitals don't do abortions out of their ERs? Probably been wondering why she's been sick in the morning. 'It won't go away, doctor, what should I do?' Take a long, hard look at yourself and invest in some condoms next time. Remember that yellow is a nice, neutral color for clothes and rooms and toys.

There was no one else, but they were all here first. Only the girl was wearing a bracelet, so he was third in the triage line. Great. At least forty-five minutes.

He looked at the magazines next to him. People? Read it. Entertainment Weekly? Read it. US Weekly? Read it. Newsweek? Blah. Red Book? Blah. Discovery? Full of crap. Ladies Home Journal? Could be interesting. National Geographic? Was he really in the mood to look at big-breasted African women and their pot-bellied, worm-infested, bony kids? The attempt to rouse his sympathy was just too blatant. Field and Stream? Hmm. Did the top twenty places in the US to catch rainbow trout really interest him? Wasn't it a little cold for fishing? Seemed better than the other choices, though.

The woman and baby were called to triage as he read the table of contents, gingerly holding the magazine open with both hands, front cover pinched between his left thumb and forefinger. Top Twenty Places in to Catch Rainbow Trout, Jigs vs. Live Bait: A New Perspective, Ice Fishing in the Yukon with Jerry Gladwell, Dorf: Ten Years Later, Preparing for Next Season: Five New Ways to Get the Biggest Buck, Boise State's Blue Field and the Duck Problem: A Compromise. He stopped reading. They'd definitely run the most interesting story on the cover. And how many of these top twenty places would be in Jersey? He smirked to himself and turned to the article to find out. An ad caught his eye as he was flipping the pages and he paused to read it.

Clear Channel and Ticketmaster present  
THE LARGEST MONSTER TRUCK SHOW IN NEW JERSEY HISTORY!  
featuring GRAVEDIGGER, MUDZILLA, the DEATHINATOR, ANNIHLKILL, SKULLBREAKER, BONECRUSHER, Motorcross legend Tommy "The Tank" Barilla, and many more!  
One Night Only!  
Friday, March 11, 2005  
New Jersey Fairgrounds, Trenton  
Adults 15 dollars, kids twelve to five 8 dollars  
Kids under five get in free!  
So much fun it's nearly illegal!  
BE THERE OR GRAVEDIGGER WILL COME FIND YOU!

Now _that_ was why he went with the fishing magazine instead of the liberal guilt look-how-great-our-pictures-are magazine. He was _so _there. He'd have to put in a call to his guy once he was through with this charade.

The girl was called back. He watched her go. Not a bad ass for a fourteen year old. He didn't get far with that thought before his stomach started doing that thing it wouldn't quit doing. Damn.

He set the magazine aside, tasting blood in his throat. He swallowed against it involuntarily, starting to breathe fast. Could he make a mad dash to the bathroom? No, his legs were too rubbery, and even with the adrenaline pumping through him, he knew he'd never make it. And maybe if he grossed these other people out enough they'd leave. He could feel them looking at him as he started to heave. _Mind your own_ _business!_, he wanted to shout. No time though.

_Yeah, guess why I'm here. What? Can't get it? I have a hangnail._

He set the basin aside. He didn't think that was as much blood as earlier, but it was hard to tell. Maybe the bleed was stopping and he could go home and not have to deal with all the crap he was going to have to deal with very shortly.

And maybe pigs would fly or some equally hyperbolic inanity would occur. Fat women and rainbows and skittles. Dogs walking backwards, butts shaven, an improvement. Stomach trouble gone, leg better, and a really attractive woman going straight for his crotch.

He burped and spat into the bowl, shaking. Metallic.

_Christ, hurry up!_

He _so_ did not want to pass out in front of these people. Suppressing a groan at the lousy lot life had dealt him today, he slid down in the chair and put his hands over his face.

After a moment, he reached mechanically into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved his pills, popping one into his mouth and sucking on it. The acrid, medicinal taste banished the foul combination of bile and blood, and sucking on one of his pills always made him feel better. He was in control of himself when he had a pill in his mouth. It calmed him down and made him feel better—two things he desperately needed right now.

He heard the old man being called to triage. Great. Second in the triage line now. For a moment, he hoped faintly that one of the medical personnel had seen him spew blood: _that_ would get him treated immediately. He waited. Nothing. More waiting, great. If he had the energy, he'd get up and slap the basin down in front of one of the admissions people…but getting up was too much trouble.

He was beginning to feel pleasantly numb and tired. Cold, too, he was cold. He made a half-hearted attempt to wrap his jacket tighter around his upper body, but he didn't really have the energy for that either.

Time passed. It must have because suddenly he heard his name called.

"House? Gregory House?"

He stood carefully and appraised the young woman who'd called his name. Drew the nightshift. Shit luck. Or maybe she'd done something. One never could tell. She was entirely too young to be working triage. He felt himself starting to shake and was suddenly grateful that the space between him and her was closing rapidly. She looked at his hand as he limped past her and into the room.

"It's not what you think," he said. Oh goody. His turn to play annoying patient. He'd make the most of it.

"Right," she said, not impressed. "Step on the scale please."

He did and was surprised at the number that showed. Sixteen pounds since the last time he'd been weighed. Which was...last year? His annual physical? Yeah, that seemed right. His driver's license was so telling a lie now.

The small part of his brain that sounded like Wilson started to pipe up—this _is what I was talking about_, it said. He shoved it away. He was going to consume lots of beer and pizza after this and he'd put the pounds back on in no time. This was just a run of bad luck.

He sat on the exam table and she moved to a stool and wrote the number down.

"Says here that you've been vomiting blood?" she said casually. "How long has that been going on?"

"Which part?" he asked. "The vomiting part or the blood part?"

"The blood part," she said.

"Well, just now, outside, and for about two days before that," he replied. "I have an ulcer. Gastric, I'd say, from the location of the pain and color of the blood, but I'm sure you want to run your tests."

She wrote something down and looked at him quizzically.

"Oh," he said, "I'm a doctor. Did I not mention that?"

"No, doctor," she said pointedly. "You didn't."

"Yeah, well, there it is," he said. "I'm A negative. I need a pint of that, a bag of saline, probably an anti-emetic since this doesn't seem to want to stop, and an antibiotic, and I'll be on my way."

She was clearly unimpressed.

"You might want to write that down," he suggested. "Or I can do it." He reached for the form. "I've got privileges here."

She ignored him. "Are you allergic to anything?" she asked.

"No," he answered simply. Maybe he was being too hard on her. It _was_ an ungodly hour for the night shift.

"On any medication?"

"Vicodin," he said.

She looked up at him, surprised.

He held up his cane by way of explanation. "Let's say 40 milligrams per day. That's a good number, don't you think?"

Her eyes narrowed. "How much is it really?" she asked. "I need to know."

"Of course you do," he said. "Forty." This would get back to Cuddy eventually. Not good to have a written record of his taking anything other than what he was prescribed. Except for pharmacy records. But who cared about those.

For a second it freaked him out, the knowledge that this would in fact get to Cuddy and probably faster than he'd expect, and he was tempted to get up and leave right then and there.

But then she was sticking a thermometer in his ear. And what the hell. He felt sick again, sweaty and weak. She put a blood pressure cuff around his bicep and he sat there, hoping she wouldn't notice that he'd just blanched, or that she wouldn't care and would let him go back out and sit around in peace for a little while longer. Go back to that fishing magazine. Who knew what untapped gold was lying in wait between its pages.

She wrote the numbers down. He knew what was coming. Weakness aside, he was still half-ready to bolt.

Pulse ox clamp on his finger. Why? Whatever. She wrote more numbers down.

He swallowed thickly. "Pass me an emesis basin," he murmured.

She wasn't moving fast enough.

"Now!" he snapped.

He choked and heaved and swore and after a minute it was over and he held an empty bowl.

"Bleeding must've stopped," he mumbled, catching his breath.

He noticed she wanted his wrist to attach his i.d. bracelet and ignored her, taking up his cane instead.

"It's been a pleasure," he said, getting to his feet, "but I'm all better."

One step toward the door and the room's temperature dropped several degrees. He burst into a sweat as the world swirled and sank. Gravity had gone wrong all of a sudden. He registered a colorful blur that must have been the nurse leaping and then nothing else.


	32. Nothing Much to Say

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

**A/N:** Glad you guys are still enjoying this fic!

* * *

**Chapter 32: Bad Day**

House came to in the triage room. He was in a chair and his coat was draped over him. Crap. He'd passed out. He felt shaky, slimy, miserable. He was so cold, too. Great. Shock. Just what he needed.

He sat up and ran a trembling hand over his face, and was just beginning to wonder why he was alone and whether he had enough time and energy to make a break for it when the triage nurse appeared in the doorway with a wheelchair. Two orderlies with a gurney joined her.

Delightful.

"I'm okay," he said quickly. Spotting his cane next to the exam table, he got to his feet and stumbled the half-step forward toward it.

The nurse protested and almost had a hand on his arm before he spat, "Don't touch me. I'm _fine_."

Cane in place and weight balanced, he wavered but stayed on his feet, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Where do you want me to go?" he asked in a jumbled, half-slurred ball of syllables.

The nurse gestured to the wheelchair. "Sir, if you would—"

"No," House said immediately, "not happening."

Sweat on the back of his neck now. He saw her about to ask him again.

"Look," he said, "I'm not riding in that. You'd have to get them," he nodded at the orderlies who were watching the scene with poorly concealed amusement, "to wrestle me into it. It's easier on everyone if you just point me where you want me to go." Spots burst into his field of vision and he swayed. "But make it quick."

The nurse gave him one last look before capitulating. "To your left," she said.

"See?" House said as he lurched past her, "wasn't that easy?"

The orderlies snickered and left but the triage nurse lingered closer to House's side than he wanted her to be as he turned the corner.

A large nurse with a sour look on her face waited for him. The charge nurse. She could not have been more of a stereotype if she'd tried. Her name was something he didn't quite catch as she walked on his other side. He tagged her Brunhilda the moment he saw her. Balbricker from Porky's I and II sprang immediately to mind—definitely not Balbricker from Porky's III, this one was all seriousness—but he didn't want to drag such quality films into this mess. That shower scene had gotten him through many lonely nights. She was more of a Brunhilda anyway.

She led him back to a room, passing Girl With Child and Guy With Scalp Lac, and indicated he change into the gown that was waiting on the gurney. Redistributing his weight, he reluctantly pulled his sweatshirt off, shivering, and laid it across a chair, wondering why she was still here watching him, leaning menacingly against the counter. His pills rattled in the pocket of the coat when he put it down. She moved immediately—it was only a small shift in position, but it told him that she'd been waiting for that. Shit. What had tipped her off?

She rifled through the coat and found the bottle and had emptied it on the counter and was counting the pills and comparing the number to the date on the bottle before he could get anything out.

"Hey, what the hell?" he said annoyed. He was pretty damn sure this was invasion of privacy. But at least it was taking his mind off of how crappy he felt.

She looked up from writing and counting and said, "Sir, do you use any other drugs?"

"_What!_" he all but shouted. And then it registered. The triage nurse had seen his arm when she took his blood pressure, noted the story it told, and put that together with his sarcastic comment about his Vicodin dose. He could see the note on the chart now: _may be active drug seeker_.

Some people had no sense of humor whatsoever. He sighed inwardly.

"You mean this," he said, indicating to one of the puncture marks on his arm. He didn't wait for her to nod. "Funny story," he said, taking his cane up and leaning heavily on it. "You see, I've been kind of sick lately, as you may have noticed what with my being here and all, and I don't know what that chart says, but I'm a doctor at Princeton-Plainsboro and I have this doctor friend who also works there and he's made it his personal mission in life to never leave me alone for one second, so he sees I'm a little sick and all of sudden he's sticking IVs in me, but that kinda interferes with my work and I manage to get away, but as it turns out I'm not good at hiding from him and he can definitely out-run me, so he got me three times, hence these," he said, indicating to his arms again.

Why did he feel the need to explain himself to her in such a long, rambling, run-on paragraph of a sentence? Perhaps it was the sense he had that she would crush him if he made the wrong move. And the fact that she had his pills laid out on a tray and might crush them instead. He swayed and just barely caught himself.

She was unimpressed. "Why were you working if you were that ill? Where is this 'friend' now?" she asked flatly.

Shit. She had him. "Now that's a much longer story and it's not funny at all," he said.

She stared stonily at him. He had more than half a mind to make a run for it but he knew he wouldn't make it to the front door, wobbly as he was feeling now.

"Look," he said shakily, "it's kinda hard to fake bloody vomit. You've got my pills. What else do you want? Run a tox screen if that'll make you happy. I can tell you exactly what you'll find and if you give me a few minutes, I can tell you exactly how much of it you'll find."

"That won't be necessary, sir," she said, putting the pills back in the bottle and collecting it and the chart she had.

Before she could leave, he asked in his nicest, most sheepish voice, "I guess it's a little late in the game to ask if I can keep the shirt and sweatpants for now?"

"Please change into the exam gown," she said and closed the door as she left.

"Yeah," he said to the empty room. "Thanks."

He sat down on the gurney and bent to slip his shoes off. They were so much easier than the Nikes. Too bad they provided no support whatsoever and made his remaining leg muscles and knee hurt like crazy when he wore them and had to walk any distance longer than the one between his living room and bedroom. He was happy to get them off quickly, though. The blood supply to his brain wasn't what it should be and any kind of bending made his head swim dangerously. Brunhilda would probably leave him there if he passed out and fell onto the floor. She might even have her way with him... Eww. The thought disgusted him and he turned to the challenge of his t-shirt to push it away.

He had his t-shirt halfway off when the door opened to reveal a nurse with his hands full.

"Give me a second, would you?" House said and the nurse nodded and ducked out.

He got his shirt off without jarring his hand too much or any further interruptions and picked up the gown. It was one of those that tied in the back, not in the front like the ones that had at PPTH. Thankfully. Those things were always too short for him and he'd prefer that they showed his back instead of his front. He slid his arms through the sleeves and let it drape around him. There was no way he was even going to think about tying it. Screw that. He was tired and he'd welcome the feel of the gurney under his back no matter how uncomfortable it was. Pants? Screw them too. The nurse would be back before he could get them off and that would be _really_ embarrassing because then he'd feel obliged to help and he didn't like guys undressing him in any context. Not that he wanted Brunhilda undressing him either, oh no. He'd take the guy over her any day. But that wasn't the point. He didn't want _anyone_ undressing him. He wasn't a Ken doll. And if they wanted to press the issue, well, he'd deal with that later. Right now he needed to lie down before more blood left his brain and gravity took over. Again. Wouldn't that be fun.

He got his left leg on the gurney and tried the balancing act where he got his right leg up without involving his left hand. No luck. So he gritted his teeth, planted his left hand, and got his leg up just in time to fall back and curse through coarse breaths. He heard the door open as the slimy feeling of weakness from blood loss overtook him and he stopped cursing to focus on breathing and not passing out instead.

It didn't work.

The next thing he knew the guy from earlier was standing over him saying something he couldn't make out and holding his wrist. God. Not again.

"I'm okay," he managed to squeak out before he had more people swarming over him.

The guy said something echoing his statement out the door and he looked up and saw Brunhilda standing there, expression still stony and disapproving. _Dontcomeindontcomein_. He was relieved when she nodded at the guy and moved out of his field of vision. Thank God. He didn't want to deal with her until he had his head together again.

The nurse introduced himself and then went to the door. He said something House didn't catch and a sleepy-looking med student walked in. Looked like he'd dropped in on IV training day. The day was just getting better and better. Next thing he knew, it'd be raining marshmallows and puppies and Hello Kitty stickers. He watched the student get set up. Gloves. Tubing. Sizably-bored needle. So they were serious about this.

He dimly recalled the first time he'd started an IV on some poor, unfortunate soul. He was cocky, fresh out of a graduate program in bio research that had bored him to death until he took his MS and quit, moving on to greener pastures. He was twenty three and he already had four articles published, three as a co-author and one on his own. He'd been to conferences. He had things set up to be a research scientist for life. But the waiting in the lab for results, the mind-numbing waiting. He couldn't stand it. And if one thing went wrong in an experiment—especially an experiment on something live (he'd done one on rats once and went through six litters before the conditions were right)—it was back to square one. Trial and re-trial. A year and a half in the lab and he was ready to go psycho on someone almost all the time. Besides which, no one among the other student researchers really shared his interests so he had no one to hang out with and that made for a boring experience outside of the lab too. He'd been happy to leave, even if he wasn't exactly in love with the patients that took the place of waiting on lab results—although they were much more interesting than rats or viruses, even if they did have a nasty habit of dying. And lying to him. He wasn't sure which was worse.

Patients. He didn't remember anything about the first patient he'd pricked. He'd done it well although he recalled being a little nervous about it. He'd already gotten a reputation as a show-off and if he screwed up something so basic, he'd never live it down. He managed to pull it off flawlessly, with flourish almost. No, he didn't remember anything about the patient—but he did remember murmurs of "insufferable bastard" and "smug prick" circulating among the other first year students.

This kid, though. His hands were shaking slightly. Who knew what torment he'd been inflicting on patients all night. House noticed the nurse watching the student surreptitiously and felt a little better, even though the nurse looked young enough to be a student himself. The student—Will? Walt? was that what he said his name was?—Will glanced at House's arm and then looked questioningly at the nurse—Ben? was it Ben? something with a B. He'd been trying to sort himself out when the guy made introductions, but he was pretty certain a B was involved somewhere. Ben made some reassuring motions and Will set about finding a vein that hadn't already been found. He went for House's right hand and though he wasn't exactly quick about it, he didn't mess it up either. The student set about drawing blood for the labs. They flashed through his mind. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Procedure was so slow. He knew exactly what he needed, but _no_, they had to run their precious tests first.

The student finished and started the IV. The blood he'd taken—House could feel its loss now. It was a horrible feeling that made him want to crawl into a hole in the wall and collapse. He'd take a good anti-emetic and some platelets though—they would be worth sticking around for. But until then...it actually wouldn't be such a bad thing if he passed out again. It would make the time go faster at least.

"Okay, Mr. House," the nurse said, "the doctor will be in soon." He glanced at House's splinted finger. "Do you need some help with your pants?"

"Um, no," House said. If they'd just give him a second...

"All right," the nurse said smiling and left.

Seemed like a nice enough kid. Anything that wasn't Brunhilda. But there was no way he was going to get his pants off by himself. And right now, he didn't care what happened to him. He needed a nap.

He closed his eyes. Just a short nap…

* * *

Some time later an opening door woke him up. He wearily watched a young guy in a white coat step into the room and ogle him. That must be today's primary caregiver. Great. 

"Dr. House?" the kid said in a surprised, eager, disbelieving tone. "_The_ Dr. House?"

"No," House said irritably, "the other one. But I do impersonations for him when he's away." He didn't like this guy already.

The guy started bubbling. "Your article in NEJM last year was incredible, the one on—"

"Thanks," House said, cutting him off. Groupies were fine with him but he liked his groupies younger, cuter and more female. And also not responsible for seeing that he get proper medical treatment. Who made this guy a resident?

The kid stepped forward and offered his hand. House shook it. "Pleased to meet you," the kid said.

"You too, Dr.—"

"Grant," he said, "David Grant."

"Well, ah, Dr. Grant—"

"You can call me David," the kid said.

"Okay, _David_, what've we got here? Forty-five year old male, acute upper-GI bleed, what do we do about that?" He paused. "Or do I have to puke on you first? Because that can be arranged." At the startled look on the kid's face, he added, "I don't know if it comes across in the article, but I'm an asshole when I'm bleeding internally."

The kid stiffened a little but remained jovial. "Right, sorry about that," he said. "Uhh, we'll get your started on platelets and a pint of blood once you're typed."

"A negative," House interrupted.

Grant smiled. "Okay," he said, "but we'll type and cross just to be sure."

House rolled his eyes. The gesture went unnoticed by the kid. "Use your discretion, obviously," he muttered.

Grant's eyes flitted to House's cane in the corner. "Are you in any pain?" he asked, face a mass of concern.

_God yes!_ House thought. That Brunhilda was holding his pills hostage made him uncomfortable and edgy in and of itself. He'd taken one between the cab and the ER doors in preparation for the crap he'd have to put up with but he'd lost most of it in the basin earlier, and the one he'd sucked on afterwards wasn't doing any good at all. His leg was a bother. His hand was a bother. His stomach was really a bother. But he'd tough it out until he could grab a nurse. It was unlikely that Brunhilda would approve but he hated answering such a direct question. It would get back to Grant eventually and he'd okay it. As long as it remained indirect...

"No," he said.

"Good," Grant said smiling. "We should have your labs back soon and then we'll get you feeling better."

"Yeah," House said, "thanks."

Grant smiled again and left, leaving the door open behind him. House wished fervently that he'd closed it. Sure, he knew why and it was a valid reason, but was a little privacy so much to ask for? But then, he worked in a hospital and he knew the answer to that question.

Whatever. He closed his eyes again.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when Ben the nurse walked in again. That was quick. Good. Maybe the whole ordeal would be quick and he could go home and enjoy his week off in peace and privacy. His movies would be arriving in the mail today. Wouldn't want to miss them.

"Okay, Dr. House," Ben said, "I've got something for you that will help with the nausea."

"Yummy," House mumbled and Ben smiled.

He felt the drug hit him and was ready to relax with it when Ben had to go and ruin things. "I'm gonna have to get you to lose the pants," he said, producing a plastic cup. "Need a urine sample."

"I'm not sure I have any urine for you to sample," House said grimly. He knew where that would get him and he didn't like it one bit.

Ben just smiled again. "Give it a try," he said and stepped out of the room, closing the door as he went.

House had to give him credit: he was handling the situation well. But in reality, Ben was only prolonging the inevitable. And now that he was finally feeling more comfortable—sleepy and much less nauseous—the evil space monkey that had taken control over his destiny in the past week was going to mess that up yet again.

House didn't even think about bothering with his pants. He'd take what was coming. At least he felt a bit better. And after Ben got his pants off, he didn't think he'd have any trouble wrangling some pain medicine from him. In a situation such as this, he was very much an active drug seeker.

House drifted in a haze of tiredness and drugs until Ben came back.

"No luck, huh?" Ben said, seeing that things were exactly as he'd left them.

"No," House said. "My pants don't seem to want to part with me this morning."

Ben smiled. House saw that he'd brought a urinary catheterization kit with him. Smart kid.

"Okay," Ben said, "I'm going to have to—"

"I know," House interrupted. "Go ahead."

House turned his head away and looked at the wall. He started declining Latin nouns. Amicus, amici, amico, amicum, amico, amici, ...the gown being lifted up and hands gripping his pants and boxers in one grab...amicus, amicorum, amici... He jerked involuntarily to his left when Ben's hand brushed against the bruise on his hip and couldn't stop himself from grunting. "Sorry," Ben said, but he didn't stop. Amicos, amicis, amicis. A wince and another grunt as Ben moved his right foot. "Sorry" again. House started declining puer.

"Dr. Grant said you might be having some pain," Ben said, folding House's pants and boxers and setting them aside. "I'll get you something for it soon."

House grunted an acknowledgement, still looking at the wall. The degree of humiliation wasn't quite worth whatever he'd get. The rip of the kit being opened. He started declining in earnest. Agricola.

"You know," House said, "if you run the IV wide open and give me half an hour, all of this can all be avoided. I'm a quick study."

He could practically hear Ben smiling sympathetically. "Sorry," he said apologetically, "but I need to get this now. Okay. This is going to be uncomfortable. Try to relax."

Alcohol pad on the tip of his penis and he tensed despite himself. Irregular verbs. Fieri. Perfect infinitive? Factus—he sucked in a breath as the tube went in and tried not to squirm—factus esse. Future infinitive? Factus—no—factum ire. Fio fis fit fimus fitis fiunt. Fiebam, fiebas, fiebat, fiebamus, fiebatis, fiebant. Damned regular for an irregular verb. Fiam fies fiet—okay, he was bored. Esse. Sum es est sumus estis sunt—how long did this _take_? Eram eras erat eramus eratis errant ero eris erit erimus—the tube went out and he felt urine drip onto the sheets and then cotton stopping it. Better, except for the feeling now that he seriously had to pee, which he knew was only a reaction; it felt weird and uncomfortable nonetheless. Knowing didn't help things. Erimus, what came after erimus? Second person plural future—eritis, erunt. Subjunctive pluperfect. Fuissem, fuisses, fuisset, urryhay ethay ellhay puay! Finally Ben wiped up and draped a sheet over House's lower end.

Jesus. He didn't realize he remembered so much Latin. He shivered and suppressed an urge to rub his groin. No pants. Now he really couldn't make a run for it. But his feet were still warm. He chanced a raise of his head to glance down.

"I get to keep the socks?" he asked he asked in a poor attempt to be jocular. He couldn't look Ben in the eye right now so he turned his head back to the wall.

"For now, yeah," Ben said. "I'll be back in a second with that pain medication."

House nodded to the wall and heard him leave, closing the door behind him. He tried to relax and stop his bladder from contracting. His buzz was long gone. But another buzz was on its way. Soon he hoped. They'd be generous, too, he hoped. Grant, at least, would be generous, he imagined. But Brunhilda...

He didn't think about it. It wasn't under his control. He closed his eyes and shivered again. The room was cold and the sheet wasn't nearly thick enough.

Ben was back more quickly than House imagined he would be.

"Got you some Demerol," he said. He started to push the meds. "That's one helluva bruise you've got," he observed casually.

"Fistfight," House replied, feeling his hand and arm burn, anticipating the sweet relief that would follow. "I lead a very adventurous life."

Ben chuckled. "Looks like you've got a good case of cellulitis going there," he said.

"I hadn't noticed," House mumbled, feeling the drug start to hit him, that delicious narcotic effect that he loved so much. He felt the pain receding. He was starting to feel _good_ again. Ben had the sense to shut up and let him enjoy it. Before he realized what was happening, Ben had propped open the door and left. He closed his eyes and sank back. He felt so good.


	33. Hey Man Nice Shot

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

* * *

**Chapter 33: Nothing Much to Say**

_Eating snow flakes with plastic forks  
And a paper plate of course  
You think of everything_

_Short love with a long divorce  
And a couple of kids, of course  
They don't mean anything_

_Live in trailers with no class  
God damn, I hope I can pass  
High school means nothing_

_Taking heartache with hard work  
God damn, I am such a jerk  
I can't do anything_

_And I shout that you're all fakes  
And you should've seen the look on your face  
And I guess that's what it takes  
When comparing your belly aches_

_And it's been a long time  
Which agrees with this watch of mine  
And I guess that I miss you  
and I'm sorry if I dissed you_

—Modest Mouse, "Trailer Trash"

Wilson sat in his office, staring at the phone. Should he call? He knew he should. But he couldn't.

Rounds at seven. No one had had a particularly difficult weekend. Some of the in-patients had gone home, some of the out-patients had come in. He'd said his hellos, checked the charts, done his job. He was scheduled to supervise a procedure for a junior colleague in fifteen minutes, leaving him just enough time to scan the memos for an emergency meeting of the transplant committee in an hour. Maybe to grab another cup of coffee too. A few hours of sleep on the floor of his study hadn't been the most restful way to pass the night.

But he couldn't take his eyes off the phone.

He ran through the same train of logic he always followed when it came to House, then forced himself to read the memo again. But his mind wandered.

Supervising another procedure at ten-thirty. Another committee meeting at eleven. He was over a week behind on his dictation (_thanks Greg_, he thought wryly): that would fill in the morning's gaps. Or he could take a nap. His afternoon schedule was somewhat lighter but still contained a few meetings he'd rescheduled last week and they required a certain amount of damage control. He'd had to miss last week's meeting with oncology's head nurse to get the weekly roundup; she was a stickler for punctuality and efficiency, and he knew he couldn't miss meetings if he wanted to remain on friendly terms with her. It wouldn't do to go in looking tired. A nap was in order.

But right now he couldn't keep his attention on the memo and all this wool-gathering was eating into his coffee run time. He should just call and be done with it. Let House be pissed off. But what if…?

No.

No 'what if's.

He was just wasting his time. House was fine. He'd play his last sister-in-law card tonight: there. Now he would put House out of his mind and concentrate on doing his work. It was that simple.

But again he felt doubt niggling him, so he got to his feet quickly, grabbed the memos, and left his office for the oncology lounge. It would be a breach of etiquette for him to make a personal call from the phone in the lounge. And the lounge had coffee.

* * *

House jerked awake. He'd been asleep? Light stung his eyes and he felt sick. 

It was Grant.

Grant offered him his labs and he took them. They registered in some part of his brain. Nothing he didn't expect. He handed them back quickly, too tired and sick to care all that much. And seriously messed up. How much Demerol had they given him? Was Grant so stupid that he didn't account for blood loss when he gave the dosage info out?

Ben entered the room with what he'd been waiting for in his hands. Platelets. Blood. Thank God.

Grant was saying things. Things he either already knew or wasn't interested in. The nausea kicked up and his right hand flew protectively to his stomach. He must have made a face or a noise because Grant was on him immediately.

"Still having some nausea?" Grant asked, chipper.

House nodded. _Why_ did he get the only chipper guy in the place?

"We'll fix that right up," Grant said.

Damn him and his damn cheery—

But House didn't get to finish cursing: suddenly he was being turned on his side—his bad side, dammit, but that hardly registered—and though he knew he hadn't been aiming, he was very pleased with himself a few minutes later when Grant was making an ugly face in the direction of his shoes. He laughed quietly to himself: _nothing_ got blood out. And he knew Grant was the type—similar to Wilson in some respects—who, while not necessarily understanding style, would wear expensive shoes. He was tempted to tent his fingers and say in a menacing yet sadistically satisfied voice, _Excellent_.

Grant was talking to him again and to Ben. He was apologizing. _Apologizing_. _And_ he was making excuses. House knew he hadn't done it on purpose, but he was slightly annoyed at being denied a chance to alienate this idiot via disgusting substance on expensive footwear. This guy _was_ a lot like Wilson, practicing infinite forgiveness and wearing costly shoes in two of the messiest departments out there…but Wilson wasn't such a tool. Not as inattentive either. In fact, he mused, Wilson was quite likable, even to him. Yes, he liked Wilson quite a bit. Not a bad guy to have around at all.

His train of thought continued in the vein for more than five minutes before he realized he was under the influence of some seriously stupefying stuff. What had he told that guy? Eh…either of those guys. No. The one with the shoes who reminded him of Wilson. He wasn't sure what he'd said, but he knew he'd said something. Had the stupefying substance come before the questions or after? Was it cause or effect? Surely it was both—it caused effects, or that is, effects indicated a cause (or was he edging into a logical fallacy?)—but which came first? Chicken or egg? From one standpoint it didn't really matter: he remained stupefied whether he had affected the cause or the cause had been affected on him (or was that the same thing?). Discerning the primary agent wouldn't stop that—but he _wanted to know_. And more than that, he felt like he _should_ know—only he'd been stupefied by some substance.

Into the line of his sight, which had been trained ceiling-wards, came the nurse. The quizzical expression on his face snapped House out of his reverie.

"Dr. House?" the nurse asked.

All House could was look at him stupidly.

The nurse grinned.

"Nice shot," he said.

House grinned back, only vaguely aware of what the nurse meant by that, but it sounded like the kind of compliment he liked to receive.

"He'll be back pretty soon, once he changes his shoes and your room is ready," the nurse said, snickering to himself. "You should get some sleep if you can."

House wanted to protest that part about the room—that sounded like a bad idea to him—but that guy was right. He _was_ falling asleep. He wanted to fight it—to register a complaint about this room business—but before he knew it he was out cold.


	34. Yellow Matter Custard

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Some of House's odd thoughts and the title come from The Beatles' "I am the Walrus," the lyrics to which belong to whoever holds the copyright (Michael Jackson?) and not me.

* * *

**Chapter 34: Yellow Matter Custard**

House jerked awake again and for a moment felt absolutely certain it was Thursday and the patient with lupus that wasn't really lupus was still dying of liver failure—he could picture the enzymes pouring through the patient's bloodstream in a miasma of green and yellow, the bright red blood cells streaming along with overworked, off-color shrunken white blood cells turning a beige-mustard, platelets that for some reason had taken on the color of decomposing eggplant, and cellular waste the uniform grey-brown of a landfill speckled like a jelly bean, as though all of it were projected on the ceiling above him, swaying psychedelically like the innards of a lava lamp—and someone bent into his field of vision in blurred, one-dimensional surrealist form, scattering the chaotic flow of damaged blood, and that someone looked like Wilson used to look when he was younger, and a voice to his right that sounded like Stacy said, "Greg," echoing, "Greg Greg Greg Greg" "Are you going to get up?" "up" echoing "up up up up?" and he smelled coffee and eggs and her just-washed scent that was also somehow spicy and then Young Wilson touched his shoulder and,

"Dr. House?"

Time sped forward, the world tilted over and then back like an inflatable doll that always righted itself with a dizzy drunken sway after you punched it, and then he was really awake and Young Wilson became the nurse from earlier for whom House felt an unexplained affinity, and his head felt like it was packed with cotton and that if he tried to stand up it would expand like a leaden balloon, becoming twice its normal size before sinking to the ground while his body stayed comically erect, and he felt like saying "crunchberries" so he tried to say "crunchberries" and,

"Are you with us?"

And then something made sense. Reality flung itself back at him as if attached by rubber band and splattered his forehead like jello, and remembering what had occurred and was occurring, he said with immense effort,

"Yeah."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yeah."

The nurse's face changed: "wrong answer" it said.

"Where are you?"

_Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye_ he wanted to say.

"Hospital."

The nurse turned.

"He's okay."

Another man came into view and smiled sheepishly. "Good," he said smiling. "I think we gave you a little more Demerol than we should have," he said. "You seem to have lost more blood than I originally thought."

House concentrated hard on saying what he wanted to say. Not _corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday_ but _That makes sense._

"That makes sense."

The man smiled again. What was his name? House couldn't recall and it didn't seem important, so he let it go.

"How are you feeling now?"

_Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down._ No, not that. That's a song.

_Fucked up_. Yes, but that wasn't it either. It was,

"Okay."

Did he really feel okay?

No. He really felt fucked up. But he also felt okay. And if he said he felt fucked up, this guy would probably inject him with some neutralizing agent and as weird as the dream/hallucination had been earlier and as difficult as it was to keep breathing and talking now, he knew instinctively that this was better than the way he'd feel if said neutralizing agent were to enter into the situation.

"Good." The man's smile became nervous. "Your, ah, blood pressure dipped for a second there…but you seem to be okay now."

The way he was looking at House—was he asking for a medical opinion? He seemed to expect something.

"Yeah."

"Good."

Was that relief in his voice? What the hell?

Then the man began rambling. "We're currently experiencing a nursing shortage and our best GI doc is out of town, so I've made some calls to people in your neck of the woods and I imagine you'd be more comfortable surrounded by your people…"

House didn't like where this was going. This guy wanted to transfer him. Didn't this guy stop to consider that he'd come to this hospital instead of the one he worked at for a reason? Apparently he had not.

House tried to raise his head from the pillow to give extra weight to the objection he was trying to force out of his mouth, but dizziness overcame him and he sunk back without having moved much in the first place. The action went unnoticed. He felt like he was falling backward into a chasm of immense proportion.

"…so unless you have any objections we'll monitor your for a little while longer to be certain that you're stable and the transfer is all set."

Again, the man seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He wanted to object—no, he didn't want to be shoved into an ambulance and driven to a place he'd been careful to avoid this morning—but at the same time, if this mistake with painkiller dosage was indicative the level of care he was going to receive here, he might not make it upstairs alive. He was too tired to argue anyway—this guy would want to know _why_ if he refused the transfer and he just didn't want to deal with that.

He mumbled something that sounded more like an assent than a dissent and was pleased when no one said anything else. All around him the air became quiet.

Was it Thursday? It felt like Thursday. Next time he was conscious enough, he'd tell Wilson to go home and get a life. He was fine. He just needed to sleep for a while. Everyone knew he didn't sleep enough. Wouldn't this make them happy?

Limboing between waking and sleep, he dreamed again that Stacy was talking to him from just beyond his right shoulder, telling him he'd be okay and crying and choking, and the vision of blood he beheld this time was his own running rancid with the poisons of decaying muscle. He watched chunks of protein clog his own blood vessels and he felt like vomiting. He was horrified. This couldn't be happening again. It couldn't be happening again. Stacy was still crying, begging him to reconsider. Reconsider what? He couldn't remember. He couldn't speak. Everything seemed wrong. But he couldn't change it.


	35. Sleepy

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Not much to this one. Just posting as a write.

* * *

**Chapter 35: Sleepy**

House slept through the observation period, giving the correct answers when he was wakened, and drifted in and out as he was moved, loaded, and in transit. The jolt of the gurney landing on pavement woke him up and he was confused for a moment, seeing a familiar building from an unfamiliar entrance. He wondered what he was doing outside the ambulance entrance; it took him more than a moment to piece together the morning's events and by that time he was being rolled through the doors. He watched an unfamiliar clerk sign papers presented by one of the ambulance crew and then he was being parked against a wall near the elevator.

The ambulance crew left and then he was alone. Alone on a gurney on the floor Cuddy frequented most. He cursed to himself.

Not relishing a meeting with her at the present moment, he closed his eyes and tried to look dead. Doctors didn't actually notice patients and he didn't know any ER nurses who would recognize him…but Cuddy had some sort of radar that told her where he was and the precise moment when his situation was the most compromising, so he pulled the sheet up over his head, leaving his feet exposed and cold. No toe tag: there wasn't much chance of him being taken to the morgue. As much as he disliked Cuddy, he had to admit that she ran a tight ship.

He felt himself slipping back to dreamland, the voices of the staff around him starting to blend and fade, when a deep male voice said, "Dr. House?"

Must be the orderly. "What?" he said from underneath the sheet.

"Okay," the voice said and he felt the gurney start to move. Good. Get him out of sight. There was something not right about this, though. Something he wanted to address. But he was so fuzzy. He couldn't think of it. He started to fade again, letting the drugs take him. Cuddy knew what she was doing. Cuddy...something...

A rush of cool air and a voice woke him again. What? He squinted in the light and looked around. Oh. A room. A nurse talking to him. The sheet had been taken off of his head. Damn.

She introduced herself and started taking his vitals.

Someone else started talking to his right. Was that…a roommate?

Wonderful.

The nurse was asking him a question and he tried to focus his attention on her again.

What was it? Oh. The pain question.

He considered it. He was numb enough bodily but he was awake now. Might drift back into sleep, might not. But he had a _roommate_.He decided to hedge his bet.

"Six."

It wasn't really a lie. He'd be at a six in half an hour or so—or as soon as his roommate started talking to him.

And whatever his reputation, a six on the pain scale would get him enough of whatever the special du jour was to put him down for a while. Anything to avoid the roommie. And he'd much rather be going up than coming down.

The doctor would see him within the hour.

Great. Another pointless examination. Come to think of it, he'd gotten what he wanted already, blood and platelets, his labs had been relatively clean…and that thing he'd been trying to remember earlier, he had it now: it was time to bust out.

But he couldn't focus on the words 'sign out AMA.' They were jumbled and nonsensical in his head. And suddenly blood was coming up his esophagus again. What? He hadn't even felt sick. Having to turn on his side again…ow. He was earning those pain meds now.

The nurse gave him a tissue to wipe his mouth and said something about paging the doctor.

He was still trying to formulate the words 'let me the hell out of here' when she left to do that thing she said she was going to do. What had it been? He couldn't think. He couldn't keep his eyes open either.

"Hey, buddy, what you in for?" he heard dimly as sleep overtook him. A thought drifted away with him: God bless drugs.


	36. Into the Fire

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

One day, I'm going to finish this fic. In the meantime, happy birthday, fic. It's been a year. To those of you still reading…wow, I would've been so pissed at an author who'd strung me along with irregular updates for a year, I would've boycotted the fic. Can't believe you guys haven't flamed the daylights out of me… ;)

* * *

**Chapter 36: Into the Fire**

"Hey. Wake up. C'mon. Jeez, you're boring."

House grunted, barely conscious, and fell back under the combined effects of powerful drugs and anemia before he could hurl a choice curse at his roommate.

"Ah, what a putz," the roommate muttered.

Before the roommate, bored by television and dialysis, could try to wake him up again, a doctor and nurse entered.

He was about to say something that reflected his crabby mood when the doctor, someone he didn't recognize, spoke.

"House?" the doctor said incredulously, stepping closer to the bed.

"He's asleep, the boring yutz," the roommate said. "Hey buddy!" he yelled.

The nurse gave him a harsh look and leaned down to wake House more gently, but the roommate's yell had done the trick. House was awake, tired, and confused, though his eyes remained closed.

"Shut up!" he said as loudly as he could.

"Dr. House."

House's eyes snapped open.

"It is you," the doctor said. He shook his head. "I didn't think there were two Greg House's in the area." He consulted House's chart. "Well. You're in bad shape."

"No shit," House replied. "Will you go ahead and cauterize the thing or do I have to puke on you too?"

"Always a charmer, aren't you House?" the doctor said. "You get priority. Should be half an hour to an hour."

House squinted in the light. "You woke me up for this?" he said.

"Some of us follow the rules of decorum," the doctor said. "They're there for a reason."

"Whatever," House said, closing his eyes.

"Always a pleasure, House," the doctor said with a half sneer. He examined House's chart. "Your labs look like crap. I'm ordering another pint of blood. Are you still at a six on the pain scale?"

House didn't move or answer.

"House?"

"What?" He kept his eyes closed, hoping the annoying jerk would either leave or fix him.

"Give me a pain rating," the doctor said.

"Go away."

"House, now is not the time to mess with me," the doctor said. "You're not as responsive as I'd like—I don't want to give you anything if I don't have to, but if you're in pain, I need to know."

"I'm fine," House mumbled.

"You don't go from a six to a zero in half an hour," the doctor said. "Were you lying then or are you lying now?"

House cracked his eyes open. "Does it matter?" House said. "Either prep me or let me go back to sleep."

The doctor tsked. "I'm going to push the procedure back until I'm sure you're stable," he said. He turned to the nurse, "Keep a close eye on him."

"Didn't know you cared, McGruder," House muttered, eyes fluttering closed again.

The doctor rolled his eyes at the nurse. "I'll see you in an hour if everything goes well," the doctor said. To the nurse, he gave another concerned glanced and said, "Page me immediately if anything happens."

House wanted to make another sarcastic comment, but…something…

The doctor and nurse left and House felt himself sinking back to sleep. He couldn't tell any longer if this was the drugs and the anemia or just the anemia. He felt pretty bad, but he was sleeping like a baby. He was ready to drop off completely when the roommate spoke up again.

"Jeez, royal treatment," the roommate griped. "You're a doctor? Did that other doctor said you're Dr. House?"

House was rocketed out of sleep, his adrenal gland dosing him with a shot of fear that he couldn't ignore. Dammit.

"No," House muttered, eyes still shut.

"But that guy called you—"

House cracked an eye open. "So what?" he said. "Doctors get sick too. Now shut the hell up and let me sleep or I'll come over there and puke on you."

The roommate started huffing over House's tone and language, but House felt himself floating away from that. He heard the nurse return and felt a fresh supply of blood run cold into his arm and then he was out.

He felt better when the nurse woke him up to check his mental status and even better than that when she woke him up again for ride down to the procedure room. Light and motion were a little much for him, but he managed to keep whatever mix of blood and bile he had in his stomach down. He half-slept through prep and was on his way out again when the doctor showed.

"So, House," the doctor said, "can you explain to me why Princeton General is suddenly too good to do endoscopies?"

"They have it out for you, McGruder," House said wearily. "I didn't ask to come here."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"While we're on that," House said, "why don't you ship me down to the morgue now and save yourself the trouble. Tell Cuddy that as a provision for my heirs not suing you out of existence I want my ashes shot into space no matter what it costs the hospital."

The doctor narrowed his eyes at House and played with the endoscope. "I'm glad it's going in this end," the doctor said, indicating to House's mouth. "Might be the first time anyone ever shut you up."

"I'm sure you'll get fruit baskets from the whole hospital," House replied. "Now quit screwing around and fix this before I make you change your scrubs."

The doctor nodded to a nurse and she prepped the knock out drug.

House almost said 'thank you,' so happy was he to finally have this taken care of, but caught himself just in time.

* * *

Wilson signed in again after lunch. He was proud of himself for having made it through lunch without calling House. In fact, as the day progressed, he thought about House less and less. He had work to do. He was doing his work. Work kept him from thinking about everything that wasn't work. God bless work.

He was on his way to his office when one of the nurses stopped him.

"Oh, Dr. Wilson," she said, "Dr. Matthews wanted you to check on a rule-out gastric that just came in. He said you know the patient and you'd want to look at it..." she trailed off, confused, offering him the file.

"Okay," Wilson said, also confused. "Who is it?"

She opened the file and scanned it. "Patient's name is House. Gregory House? Do you know him?"

Wilson reacted like he'd been shot, panic rushing through him. He barely kept himself together enough to hold out his hand for the file.

"Dr. Wilson?" the nurse asked, noting how he'd visibly blanched and started. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, Sarah," he said, trying not to sound too shell-shocked, "thank you."

He took the file and flipped it open, scanning the information. Arrival from PG 9:16 a.m., acute upper GI bleed, pt. serious, EGD ordered, three peptic ulcers cauterized, risk of perforation moderate, surgical intervention to be considered upon results of biopsy, pt. fair, PPTH 2011. 2011. He was going to kill him. Cancer or not, he was going to kill him.


	37. Reactions

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Thanks for the reviews! (Still surprised no one's flaming me.)

* * *

**Chapter 37: Reactions**

Wilson paced outside room 2011.

He'd counted to ten first. Then he'd gone and looked at the biopsy. Negative, of course. Good, but he was still going to kill him.

Then he'd counted to ten again, slowly, in fractions. Then he dashed down the stairs. Then he read the file again. Then he paced and counted to twenty in tenths. Then he talked to the nurses. Patient was in fair condition, normal temp, good BP, came out of the anesthesia with no complications, complained and threatened a lot despite being fairly weak, wouldn't win any Patient of the Year awards, but was otherwise fine.

Weak. Of course House was weak. Wilson had seen his labs. How House was still alive was a mystery to him. That kind of lab work didn't reflect an acute bleed. It reflected a chronic bleed. House had been lying to him again. This had probably been going on all weekend. Maybe House really did have a death wish. He knew that bloody emesis was a medical emergency. According to his records, he'd come in himself. No dramatic 911 call. No ambulance ride. He'd just showed up. To Princeton General. He hadn't called. Hadn't said a word. His choice of hospital communicated immediately to Wilson the fact that he didn't want him to know about this. House either hadn't expected it to be as bad as it was or he'd expected they'd treat him there. Wilson felt angry. Hurt. Betrayed. Not that this wasn't part of a larger pattern of behavior, but House didn't usually avoid telling him this blatantly. How could he— Why would he— Wilson wanted to kick and smash and scream but that wouldn't do anyone any good. No. He should go to House and unleash this anger on to him. So what if he was weak. He'd hidden it for days. Wilson had to know why. And what if he was hiding something else? What if the leg was worse?

He paced outside 2011, rehearsing what he would say. What _would _he say? What _could_ he say that would adequately express the rage he felt? House had done it again. _Again. _

And he, Wilson, he hadn't seen it coming. The signs were all there. But House had tricked him again into believing that he really was all right. Damn him. _Damn_ him.

He sighed angrily. He would go in there and just do it. House had every bit of this coming.

House was staring blankly at the television when Wilson opened the door. He looked, predictably, like crap. Not as bad as last Thursday but not good by any stretch of the imagination. Pale. Way too thin. (Wilson seen the weight listed on the chart; that wasn't what he'd weighed last year.) But he was awake and aware. That would do.

Wilson closed the door behind him, taking care not to slam it.

"_This_ is how I have to find out!" he hissed, holding up the lab results in his clenched fist for emphasis.

House looked over at him, taking a moment to register who it was and what he'd just said.

"What are you doing here?" he asked stupidly.

"I work here," Wilson said bitterly. He looked at the time of House's EGD and compared it with the time on his wrist. "They gave you Versed?" he said.

"Damned if I know," House said. "You know how they are. Don't like the patients asking questions. Gets pesky." He paused. "Should be written on that chart there. Or have things drastically changed over the weekend?"

Wilson's mouth set in a line. "So if I yell at you now, you probably won't remember it later."

"Odds are," House said, "but you wanna bet anyway?" He grinned stupidly. "I'll give you a good cushion," he said. "Strong drug, effective, but I know my memory. Couldn't forget this if I tried. So go on, yell if it makes you feel better. But first, why are you mad?" House leered at him. "Someone bitchslap you?"

Wilson ground his teeth. "Think about it," he growled.

House's eyes lit up. "Someone _did_ bitchslap you," he said. "Was it Cuddy? That'd be so cool. But why would you want to yell at _me_. I mean, I understand the effect that woman can have on people, but to take it out on a poor Crip such as myself." His eyes narrowed. "I always suspected you were one of the Bloods. Now I know."

"You're wasted," Wilson said matter-of-factly.

"You're surprised?" House said. "Or did you skip on 'fun drugs that will seriously fuck you up' day too? You shouldn't have. That's stuff you need to know."

He smiled at Wilson's look of disapproval. "I'm having fun," he said. "What's the use of being forced into a room against my will, poked and prodded with various sharp and invasive instruments, tied to a bed and not allowed to leave if I can't get some good drugs out of it? Would _you _do it if you couldn't get some good drugs out of it?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Wilson's mouth despite himself. "Well, I guess this _is_ better than finding you passed out in your bathroom."

"Oh come on," House said. "It would've healed eventually."

"That's not what the pint of blood on your chart says," Wilson replied.

"There's a pint of blood on my chart?" House said in mock disbelief, "And it's not dripping or anything? Neat trick, Chocula." No, wait. That wasn't right. "Did I just say Chocula?" He giggled.

"This isn't funny," Wilson snapped.

House tried to sober up, but he kept grinning through the façade. "You're upset," he observed.

"Yeah," Wilson said, "I'm upset. I'm upset because a nurse outside hands me a file for a rule-out and it turns out to be my best friend. You couldn't call me? You couldn't ask me for...for something? For anything? You couldn't tell me something was wrong? I have to find out like this?"

Wilson was seriously harshing his buzz. And something in his drug-addled brain clicked and told him he didn't want to talk to Wilson about this—ever.

"I don't feel like having this conversation right now," he said and turned his attention back to the television.

"Well that's too bad because you're having it," Wilson said.

Wilson watched him and waited. Five seconds, ten at the most.

Sure enough, House said after a pause, "Maybe I don't like having my hand held all the time."

Wilson's jaw clenched. "You don't have to like it."

"No," House said slowly, "I don't have to have it at all. I'm _fine_."

"Oh no you don't," Wilson said. "You're not getting away with that again. It's been too long. You're too old. I'm too old."

"You're younger than me by four years, Mr. I'm in Medical School at 21," House spat. "You should've taken the extra years to grow up. No wonder your wives keep leaving you."

Wilson flushed with anger. But he was determined not to let House bait him again, make him leave. There was really only way to get back at House and that was to play his own game. If he did that, though, they'd be back where they started: playing games, avoiding reality. Damn House.

"You're not going to get out of this," Wilson said angrily.

House wondered vaguely if Wilson would believe it if he pretended to fall asleep. Probably not.

"Okay," he said, "so tell me, since that's why you're here, do I have cancer, doctor? Should I cancel my week off, tell my staff to get hired elsewhere, and prepare for chemo? Go wig shopping? You could help with that. Bet you know all the good places. Tell me, would I make a good blonde?"

Wilson sighed angrily. "You're fine," he said, "the biopsy was negative."

"Exactly," House said. "I'm fine. You said it. So what the hell are you pissed about? I still think Cuddy bitchslapped you."

"I'm angry because all of this could have been avoided if you'd just swallow your damn pride once in a while."

"It's sharp," House protested. "It would cut my esophagus and then where would I be? Back here probably." He closed his eyes. "Bet it tastes really bad, too," he added.

"House," Wilson said.

"Wilson," House said.

"You can't keep doing this."

House sniffed. "You think I want this? You think this is fun for me?" He didn't know where he was going with that, but it sounded appropriate. The soap characters on the tv seemed to be having this exact conversation. Their expressions seemed right, anyway.

Wilson retreated, clenching his jaw. He knew House was right. He'd feel guilty for putting House here if he wasn't so furious at House for tricking him all weekend.

"The biopsy is negative," he said, going into doctor-mode, "I'm going to agree with McGruder's recommendation."

"Recommendation for what?" House asked, glancing from the soap to Wilson.

Wilson stared at him. House always seemed so immune to drugs; it was strange watching him behave like a normal patient who was still dealing with chemically-induced amnesia from a procedure.

"Surgery," Wilson said.

House vaguely recalled McGruder checking on him and mentioning that. "No," he said simply, going back to the soap on television.

"Uh, House, he told you he cauterized three ulcers, right?" Wilson said. "That you were close to perforating? That they're almost on top of each other? You need this surgery."

"No," House said, not taking his eyes off of the television this time. "As soon as this crap wears off, I'm going home."

"House, you're—"

"I know, I know," House interrupted. "I'll take it easy. Don't worry."

Wilson was stood with his mouth hanging open, stupefied by House's stubborn idiocy.

He shook his head slowly, not sure what to do. He did know he couldn't talk to House when House was in a state like this. He'd give him time for the drug to wear off and…and…and he didn't know what. But he couldn't carry on a conversation with House when House probably wouldn't remember it later.

"Okay," Wilson said. "I'm going to go so you can sleep this off. We'll talk later."

House nodded sleepily, tired from all the commotion Wilson had brought with him, and Wilson was about to leave when the door burst open and House's roommate was wheeled back in, complaining loudly to a nurse about the orderly's treatment of him.

Wilson stepped back in surprise. He hadn't noticed the room was semi-private. He glanced over at House to gage his reaction. The strained look on House's face told him this guy wasn't a new addition. House had closed his eyes: he looked like he was fighting a tension headache.

"I'll see about getting you moved," he said to House.

The roommate started screeching at Wilson now.

"Getting him moved?" the roommate said loudly, "you saying I'm annoying him? He's annoying me!"

Wilson leaned down, no longer as angry as he had been, and said in a low voice, "Half an hour tops," he said. "Try to get some sleep."

House didn't move, but his face became more pinched as the roommate launched into a tirade about bad roommates.

Wilson patted him on the shoulder and left. First he'd get House moved to a new room so he could rest, then he'd go talk to Cuddy. House wouldn't listen to him, but he would damn well listen to her. He hoped.


	38. The Plan

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Glad you guys are still liking it and reading after all this time. I really want to finish this thing soon. Thanks for your support! And I'm sorry this is such a short scene.

* * *

**Chapter 38: The Plan**

Outside, Wilson talked to the floor's charge nurse about getting House into a private room. Apparently no one had realized who he was—no one had mentioned it to her anyway—and he'd been treated like any other patient. On one hand, Wilson was pleased by this: House did need to be reminded every now and then that he wasn't God. On the other hand, House should have been treated more quickly than he was. His lab work was terrible. She assured him that House would be moved immediately. He nodded, appeased, and left for the elevator.

He shook his head on the ride down and shook it again outside Cuddy's office. He had no idea what to say. He didn't even know how to tell her. 'Hey, remember that really bad week we sort of forced on House? Well guess what—this week is shaping up to be even worse!'

No, there was no good way to do this. He glanced in through the glass doors. She was on the phone. Well. This wasn't something that could wait.

He tapped on the door. She waved him in, still on the phone. He sat down and waited for her to finish up. Glancing at the labs again, he shook his head and wondered how House had maintained all weekend. Labs like this indicated days of steady blood loss. Was there no end to his—

"What have you got?" Cuddy asked.

Wilson started. Cuddy apologized and he waved a dismissive hand.

"House is here," he said, sitting forward in the chair.

"House is here?" Cuddy repeated incredulously.

Wilson nodded, a weary expression on his face. "Second floor." He passed the chart to her.

Cuddy's eyes widened as she read it, her mouth dropping open. "Oh my God," she exclaimed. She looked to Wilson, aghast. "What happened? You said he was fine yesterday."

"I thought he was," Wilson said, shaking his head again and shrugging to let her know that he had been duped too. "McGruder said two of the ulcers showed evidence of having healed more than once—who knows how long they've been there—but that the third one is new." He shook his head. "He's an idiot. He went out and got very drunk on Tuesday. Couldn't keep anything down until Thursday—or so I thought. I don't know if he really got better or if he was hiding it from me. He also started taking Ibuprofen on Thursday. I thought he was better this weekend—I was over there, I ate with him, he seemed fine—but…"

Cuddy shook her head slowly, still reading the chart. "These labs indicate chronic blood loss," she said. "This didn't happen overnight. And he didn't come here first." She looked up at Wilson, having reached the same conclusion that had so thoroughly pissed him off half an hour ago. "He knew about it for days and he didn't want us to know."

Wilson nodded, making an annoyed face.

Cuddy shook her head again, tacitly asking _why?_ though she knew Wilson probably didn't know why House did things like this any more than she did.

Wilson cringed. "I told you I talked to him Friday and he admitted addiction," he began. "What I didn't tell you was that I pushed him about it. He got angry. There was shouting. It thought it would be a week before he'd speak to me again." He paused. "In his mind, this is probably some form of revenge."

Cuddy shook her head, marveling not only at House and his weird notions (because Wilson was probably right: this _was _some kind of revenge), but also at Wilson. She wouldn't ask how he'd gotten back into House's good graces so quickly—she didn't need to know. It wasn't her business. But she wondered. Sometimes their relationship was a complete enigma to her.

"Have you seen him?" she asked.

Wilson nodded. "He's still loopy from the EGD." He sighed and looked at the carpet, shaking his head again. "He doesn't want surgery."

Cuddy stared at him like he'd just told her the sky was purple. "Does he know how close he was to perforating?"

Wilson nodded. "I told him," he said, "but he was out of it." Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "Not so out of it that he couldn't argue with me," Wilson clarified. "He wants to go home once the Versed wears off."

Cuddy barked a laugh. "And he'll be right back here tomorrow with a hole in his stomach and bacteria in his bloodstream," she said.

Wilson half-shrugged. "It might not be that bad," he said. He didn't want to play devil's advocate—especially not when House was the devil—but he hadn't talked to McGruder or seen the tape…it might not be that bad…really…

Cuddy eyeballed him incredulously. "When the person who cauterized the ulcers recommends surgery, sane individuals tend to believe him."

Wilson chafed at being compared to House. _This_ was why he didn't do devil's advocate for House.

"He's going to say the same thing when he wakes up," Wilson pointed out.

Cuddy sighed. "So we have to convince him," she said wearily. "Great." She leaned against her right fist, elbow on the desk. "The only time I wish I could disregard the patient's rights like he does is when he's the patient." She glowered at Wilson. "Think there's something to that?"

"I'll show him the tape," Wilson offered.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "And when that doesn't work, I'll threaten to double his clinic hours."

Wilson cracked a smile. "That might actually work."

Cuddy's lip tugged. "Of course I can't do it."

Wilson nodded. Just because House didn't care about ethics didn't mean they had the right to toss them out the window when he was the one being the stubborn patient.

Cuddy stared down at the chart, thinking. "We could get someone from psych to declare him mentally unfit…" she began, "…if anyone from psych would go near him."

Wilson's lip tugged upward in a grudging smile again. "He'd be really angry."

Cuddy returned his half-smile, nodding. "He'd find some way to sneak out."

"Yeah," Wilson sighed. "It has to be his decision."

They both sat glumly, trying to come up with some way of convincing House to do what was in his own best interest. They were silent for a long time.

Then, suddenly, the proverbial light bulb blinked on in Wilson's head. "I've got it!" he exclaimed.

Cuddy leaned forward eagerly.


	39. The Plan Fails

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Okay, only a few chapters to go. So near the end! Thanks for reading still after all this time. :)

* * *

**Chapter 39: The Plan Fails**

House woke slowly over the course of an hour. Awareness would arrive, he'd blink heavily at the dim ceiling, and he'd doze again. Twice he almost found the call button, ready to demand an AMA sign-out form, before he drifted off. When he did finally wake up and stay awake for more than thirty seconds, he stared at the ceiling for a full five minutes before he remembered where he was and what was going on. He tapped the call button and found the bed control to raise himself up. Something told him he was a little too woozy to sit up on his own right now.

A nurse arrived quickly. He pressed a palm against his forehead and requested the proper paperwork.

He squeezed his eyes shut, dizzy and unsteady, and pressed his hand harder against his head. "Where are my clothes?" he asked before she could leave.

"In the dresser," she replied.

"Thanks," he said, breathing slowly in and out. Why the headache? It took him a series of long moments to recall that he'd still been reeling from the overdose of Demerol when he'd arrived. Apparently McGruder didn't read medication orders that carefully…though hadn't he said something about med levels earlier?

House blinked. She would come back with the…the uh…the…the thing, and he would get…something…the…the something…

He couldn't stop his eyelids from falling shut again.

The next time he opened his eyes, Wilson and Cuddy were standing close to the bed. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with his right hand, trying to discern whether they were real.

"What the hell?" he muttered. He blinked fiercely, trying to keep his eyes open. They were glued shut by the same substance that was keeping him from sitting up, trading in this gown for his clothes, and getting the hell out of here. 'What the hell' covered the situation pretty well from his perspective.

"Where's the—" he blinked and licked his lips. What was he wanted again? He…wanted…to…to…oh, right. "I want to leave."

Cuddy was wearing the 'you're a moron' look and Wilson appeared to have a grain of sand in his throat he couldn't dislodge. Instinct told him they wouldn't be aiding and abetting his getaway but that didn't matter because…of…something. He blinked hard again. Had they just come to stand menacingly over him (or make pearls in Wilson's case) or was time beginning to elongate?

Before he could voice that question, Cuddy rolled her eyes and stepped forward.

"House," she said. "You're an idiot."

House tilted his head, several pieces of the puzzle having fallen suddenly into place in his drug-stewed brain. "Trying to butter me up?" he said. Why did he keep going back to oysters?

"You need this surgery," Cuddy stated.

Oh. Surgery. That was the reason he didn't want to stick around. Riiight.

"Ah, no," House said. "I think I'll take all of my stomach home today."

Cuddy gave him the special non-nonsense glare she reserved for the moments he went above and beyond his usual level of idiocy.

"And how long will it be before one of them starts bleeding again?" she said wearily. Trying to argue with House was about as useless as trying to argue with a wall. Though to its credit, the wall sometimes appeared to be listening.

House rolled his eyes, then blinked at the weird sensation that swept though him. "I'll deal with it if it happens," he said, pressing his hand against his head again.

Cuddy also rolled her eyes. "Your track record for dealing with these things is somewhat less than spectacular," she said wryly.

"I refuse to consent," House said magisterially. If he'd had himself more together, he would have added on one of his best 'so what are you gonna do about it?—that's right, there's nothing you can do about it' looks. As it was, he could barely lift his head off the pillow. But they didn't need to know that.

Wilson stepped forward now. House blinked at him. He'd forgotten Wilson was there.

"We thought you might say that," Wilson said.

House did a double take, blinked again, and found the sarcasm switch just in time. "Ooo," he said, "ganging up on me. I'm disappointed in you, Jimmy. I know the twins are very persuasive when they're unleashed on the innocent," he leered at Cuddy's chest for good measure, "but this is the dark side we're talking about."

"Seriously," Wilson said. He looked stricken again. House began to wonder about the progress he was making on that pearl.

Too focused on Wilson, he was surprised when Cuddy spoke again. She was still here?

"We've got a proposition for you," she said.

"You're propositioning me?" House asked. "My hooker is going to be very jealous."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and waited for him to have his moment before she continued. "You need this surgery," she began. "But you're too much of an idiot to realize that. So here's the deal: any time you're ready, you eat something. We don't care what, as long as it's a realistic portion. You keep it down and you get another month off clinic duty. You don't keep it down, you have this surgery before you start bleeding again."

House took a moment to process what she'd just said. "Impressive," he said. "Your total lack of regard for the patient's welfare and this sudden interest you've taken in games of chance—marry me, Cuddy." He made a face—Wilson's grain of sand had leapt down his throat—and moved his jaw up and down, trying to get a horrible taste out of his mouth. "Did I just say that?" he asked rhetorically. "I am on _drugs_."

Wilson shook his head with an 'I can't believe you' curl to his lips and Cuddy rolled her eyes yet again.

"I told you he wouldn't go for it," Wilson said in a stage whisper.

"What do you want me to do?" Cuddy snapped back.

House watched them with amusement. He would have clapped if his arms had been answering commands in a more timely fashion. "Nice try, but you two need to work on your act," he said. "It's all about timing."

Cuddy was quick enough to avoid looking caught, but House saw Wilson's telling reaction. Wilson always had the most telling reactions.

"House," Cuddy barked, "this is serious. If you need two pints of blood for an ulcer, you're close to perforating. I'd rather not have to explain your corpse to the trustees—but I certainly don't expect you to do this for me." She paused, and House watched her jaw do that thing it did when she was about to say something she really didn't want to say. "Two months."

House held her gaze for a moment before he spoke. "I don't like knives," he said. "Have I mentioned that?"

Cuddy sighed like a dragon preparing itself to breathe fire on unwary villagers. "Would you rather I threaten you?" she asked, frustration taking over her tone.

"You can take your top off," House suggested. "Wouldn't hurt."

"House—"

"I'm _fine_," he interrupted. "If I were anyone else, you'd let me walk out of here right now. Surgical intervention isn't indicated unless hemorrhaging can't be controlled and that isn't the case. You're being way too cautious." He paused for effect. "Either that or you're both intent on torturing me." He narrowed his eyes, screwing up his face as best he could to reflect suspicion: _I wouldn't put it past you._

"McGruder thinks that—"

"I know what he thinks," House cut in. "He told me. He's treating me like I just donated money for a new wing and matching koi pond. I'm fixed. I can go home."

Cuddy snorted. "With that kind of blood loss, we like to keep even the uninsured here for at least a day," she said.

"And I'm sure Medicaid is very happy with you for that," House said, "but I'm okay and I'm leaving."

Cuddy glanced at Wilson, but he wasn't as amused by the situation as she was. "You're leaving?" she said, unable to resist teasing him. "Okay. Leave."

House glowered at her, realizing she'd figured out he could barely move. "When this crap wears off," he qualified. He muttered something about idiots who were unable to calculate a proper dosage.

Cuddy tittered. House was complaining about narcotics—she wasn't expecting that. Neither Wilson nor House seemed to appreciate the humor she saw, though.

"The doses were within normal limits," she pointed out. "You don't just bounce back from losing that much blood." She glared, waiting for a response for him. When nothing was forthcoming, she continued. "We need to start you on a triple therapy combination anyway."

Her hands went to her hips and her jaw did that thing again. House watched stupidly. He was reaching the limit of his capacity for sustained thought and conversation. And consciousness. If she wanted him to say something…then…um…what was the question?

By the time he recalled that Cuddy was debating with herself and didn't expect him to contribute anything meaningful, she indicated with a series of jerky, half-sure movements that she was done deliberating.

She held up a finger. "One night," she said. "Sleep the meds off, let us make sure you can tolerate the antibiotic, and you can leave tomorrow morning if you're good."

"No—" House began. He was having trouble keeping his thoughts together. He tried to shake his head, to rattle them into place, but his awareness of the world was fading. He fixed bleary eyes on Wilson. "Tell her why that's—" he struggled for the words, "not what I want."

Wilson did a very convincing impression of a deer caught in headlights for a moment before he returned to himself. He shook his head and patted House's left shin a few times. "Get some sleep," he said.

House wanted to argue. Didn't Wilson realize he needed someone in his corner right now? Even if he'd been going along with what Cuddy had said, he'd come around. He always came around. But House couldn't keep his eyes open. This— damn— crap— in his system. Wilson and Cuddy blurred and faded, and he couldn't…couldn't keep his eyes open…

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a worried glance.

"I'll draw some blood," Wilson said.

His indecision hadn't gone unnoticed by Cuddy. She smiled sympathetically and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're doing the right thing," she said.

"Feels like crap," Wilson mumbled, massaging the back of his neck.

"He'll thank us for it," Cuddy said.

Wilson smiled wryly and shook his head. House would never let them forget this; he certainly wouldn't thank them for it.

"I'll come by when the labs are back," Wilson said, digging supplies out of the room's cabinets.

Cuddy returned his wry smile and nodded, leaving him to his work.


	40. Dr Jekyll, Mr Hyde

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Getting closer to the end. Woohoo!

* * *

**Chapter 40: Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde**

"House."

Wilson shook his shoulder.

House's lips moved but he continued to sleep.

"House." Wilson spoke louder this time.

He was set up to draw blood for new labs but he hesitated to stick House if he wasn't completely out.

"House," Wilson said, leaning down so he was speaking into House's ear, "I'm going to draw some blood. Don't freak out, okay?"

He waited for House to respond. Nothing.

"You asleep?"

Nothing.

Wilson pulled back. He half-expected House to play some vengeful trick on him, but House seemed to be genuinely asleep. Wilson frowned. Well. That was why he needed to get the blood. If House was still bleeding, it would show up in the results. Given his near comatose state, a new bleed seemed likely.

Wilson sighed as he swabbed House's arm—again. The small, round punctures from last week's slew of IVs were healing well, but they stood out markedly with the veins in his arms. Too much weight loss. He was nothing but bones and veins and pale skin.

Wilson watched the vial fill and wondered idly how much of it was House's and how much was donor blood. It didn't matter—if House was anemic, he was anemic—but Wilson wondered anyway. He set the full vial aside and taped House's arm, bending it to staunch the flow. It was limp and heavy: House was out. Wilson pursed his lips. That would make the urine sample part more interesting.

He let House's arm fall back, made sure the vial of blood was correctly labeled, and collected two kits, hoping he'd be using the first one he pulled out.

He set everything up and shook House's shoulder again. "House," he said.

Nothing.

He shook House harder. "C'mon, House, need you to wake up."

House mumbled something unintelligible.

Wilson made a frustrated noise and started tapping House's cheek. "Don't mess around," Wilson grumbled. "I really don't want to cath you."

"G'way," House muttered.

"House," Wilson said loudly, "urinary catheter. Up your dick. Unless you stop faking now."

House mumbled again, refusing to wake.

Wilson rolled his eyes, convinced House was being difficult. He returned to the supply cabinet for a sterile syringe, unwrapped it, flung the blanket off of House's feet, and stuck his big toe.

"Oww!" House exclaimed, eyes flying open as adrenaline coursed through him. "That hurt."

"Oh, I got your attention," Wilson said sarcastically. "How nice."

"Yes, you got my attention," House repeated. "What?" He hissed and flexed his toe.

Wilson placed a container and a packaged sterile wipe on his mid-section.

House glared at him, very annoyed at the manner in which he'd been awakened. "Why?" he grumbled. He had to pee anyway, but he wasn't going to do it for Wilson. Not while his toe still stung.

Wilson stared back at him. "Did you hear me trying to wake you up?"

House's eyebrow arched. He…sort of remembered…someone… "That was you?"

"Who did you think it was?" Wilson asked. He gestured toward House's arm. "You didn't feel that?"

House glanced at his arm, surprised at the cotton ball taped to it. He definitely didn't remember that. Now it was his turn to stare incredulously, answering Wilson's question without opening his mouth.

"Then I need that now," Wilson said, nodding at the container. "You're messed up."

House blinked heavily, feeling sleepy again, and slid a hand across the blanket toward the supplies. All this falling asleep…passing out…whatever… Really wasn't right.

"Go turn on the faucet," he instructed in a low tone.

Wilson held his gaze for a moment before turning toward the bathroom. He felt—dammit—he felt concern rising in his chest again. Damn House for doing these things to himself. Damn him. Wilson clenched his teeth. He should have known that House wasn't fine. House was never fine. House had a history of avoiding treatment for medical emergencies. Wilson knew that. He _knew_ that. And he'd let House convince him that he was okay this weekend. Great fat lot of good it had done. Gigantic lot of good it had done. He seethed as he watched water flow from the tap, trying to pretend it was House he was angry with.

"Done."

Wilson snarled at his reflection and turned the tap off.

He didn't want to admit to himself how relieved he was when he saw that the specimen House offered was blood free. Good. No, not good. _Excellent_.

He took the container from House, collected what he needed, and returned to the bathroom to dispense with the rest. He found an odd comfort in periodically collecting his own labs. It got him closer to the patient and it was nice to do something other than interpret test results and perform procedures that scared the hell out of the patient from time to time. Most of them weren't fazed by routine labwork—especially not in his field. But he wasn't especially found of urine he recalled, wrinkling his nose.

By the time he'd left the container within House's reach and washed his hands, House was nearly asleep again.

Wilson put his hands on the rail and bent forward to stretch his back. "You know you need this surgery, right?" he said conversationally. His eyes were closed but Wilson could tell he wasn't asleep yet.

"Do not," House mumbled.

Wilson stretched again, making the rail shake. "You are such an idiot."

"It's unnecessary," House muttered.

Wilson stopped stretching but held on to the rail, sighing. "Have you seen your chart?" he asked, trying to keep aggression out of his voice. "The Demerol dose was higher than it should've been, but not that high. It's been hours and you can't keep your eyes open."

"Versed," House replied, cracking his eyes open to glance at Wilson. "Hello."

"That dosage was exactly what it should have been," Wilson countered.

"How long has it been?" House asked. "An hour and a half? Two hours?"

Wilson sighed, this time for a different reason. He did know that he, Cuddy, and McGruder were all overreacting, but this was _House_. It was difficult to underreact. Still…

"Hour and a half," he answered.

"And what's the half life for Versed?" House asked rhetorically.

Wilson knew he didn't have to answer that. He pushed himself up. "I'm still running the labs," he said.

"I'm not stopping you," House said. He blinked up at Wilson. _Are you going to leave now?_

Wilson ground his teeth. He hated it when House was right. He gathered the specimens angrily while House watched through half-lidded eyes.

He was almost to the door when House spoke again.

"Didn't I have a roommate?" House mumbled, eyes sliding shut.

Wilson frowned. Even with the Versed/Demerol combo, House shouldn't be this disoriented. He wanted to say something, but House's face had smoothed out: he was asleep. Angry and annoyed, he opened the door to let himself out. Something was going on and he was going to find out what it was.

Cursing House, he hit the button for the elevator, annoyed enough that he was going to deliver these labs personally. He needed the exercise. Anything to burn off this cocktail of anger and concern before he snapped at someone who didn't deserve it. And as soon as House was better, he was going to bite House's head off, chew it up, and make a Picasso out of the pieces. Damn House. _Damn_ him.


	41. Diagnosis

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

All righty, here's the what's wrong with House? chapter. I don't know what you all were expecting, but I hope this works… Thanks for the reviews and for not killing me over drawing this out! I hope you won't kill me over the result. :hides:

* * *

**Chapter 41: Diagnosis**

"He's fine," Wilson said, plopping House's labs on Cuddy's desk top and himself into a chair across from her.

Cuddy raised an eyebrow, asking him to elaborate, and picked up the labs.

"He's malnourished and his LFTs look like he's been maxing out on acetaminophen after, say, a week of having it out of his system, so he's not metabolizing the drugs like he should be." Wilson made a face, more at himself for initiating this thing than at Cuddy for agreeing to it or House for keeping his stupid mouth shut all weekend. "And since no one accounted for hepatic impairment when they calculated the doses…" He threw his hands up, shaking his head, as unwilling to believe House really was fine as he had been when he grabbed the results off of the machines in the lab. "He just needs a few more hours to sleep it off."

Cuddy nodded, studying the results, having ignored most of Wilson's gestures. "This blood work looks much better," she said. "The anemia is correcting itself."

"Urine was clean, too," Wilson added. "No blood."

Cuddy looked up at him. "We were overreacting," she said.

Wilson blew out a breath and shook his head. "Hard not to when it's House," he said diplomatically.

Cuddy sat back with a sigh and glowered at the chair Wilson wasn't sitting in. "Trying to diagnosis him without conducting all the tests first." Wilson thought he heard her mutter 'stupid.' "Why does he always have to be right?" she asked rhetorically. She looked back to Wilson. "But it's good news."

"It is," Wilson agreed. He'd done his angry glaring at inanimate objects on the way from the lab.

Cuddy made the same face Wilson had made earlier, clasping her hands together as she slumped in her chair.

"So," she began, "how guilty do you feel?"

Wilson sniffed a bitter laugh. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Well…do we tell him he's fine or let him sweat?" she asked, mostly in jest. Mostly.

"He knows he's fine," Wilson said.

A glance at Cuddy revealed that she wanted more than that. His hand traveled up to his neck without his knowing about it and rubbed.

"I, ah, woke him up after you left and bugged him about refusing surgery." He let his hand drop back into his lap. "He knows he's fine. He was ready to lecture me on the half life of Versed…then he asked about his roommate and fell asleep."

Cuddy shook her head at House and his idiocy and his damnable ability to be correct about a diagnosis even when he was ignoring a larger problem.

"His hydrocodone level is higher than it should be," she noted. "Any ideas?"

"Taking it away worked wonders, why don't we try that again?" Wilson spat.

Cuddy knew he was angry with himself and that his comment was directed at himself, but she did take exception to his tone and gave him the proper rebuking expression.

Wilson held up his hands. "Sorry, sorry."

"What about his LFTs?" Cuddy said. "At least a year of acetaminophen abuse—maybe more."

"I'm sure he knows about it," Wilson said.

"But does he know the extent of the damage?"

Wilson shook his head at an absent House. "Probably." He glanced up at Cuddy. "I'll show him the results anyway, but I doubt it will surprise him."

"What do you suggest then?" Cuddy asked, becoming just a little annoyed with Wilson shooting down all her ideas. She could only stand one House in this hospital.

Wilson thought for a moment, then shook his head, blowing out another breath. "Keep him until tomorrow to make sure he recovers from the medication, order fresh labs in the morning—I'd like another EGD but I doubt he'd consent—and unless the results indicate something else is wrong, let him go after lunch." He paused. "I don't know what else we can do. He needs the pills. His pain hasn't diminished." Wilson sniffed, angry at himself. "He broke his finger to stop it. And he won't consider taking anything else." He shook his head again. "He wasn't doing great before this, but he was getting along. That shouldn't be all right…it isn't all right…but I don't see any other options."

Cuddy was reminded as she watched him sputter out his recommendation just how deeply this experiment had affected him. Wilson went out of his way to avoid hurting people—especially people he cared about. He'd put his best friend through hell needlessly. She knew he'd remember this long after House had moved on to greater grievances. After all, House still didn't know Wilson was behind all of it.

"Okay," she said. "You'll keep an eye on him?"

Wilson smiled wryly. "That's what I do," he said. _Maybe I won't botch it this time_, he added to himself as he stood up.

"Keep me updated," Cuddy said, handing him House's labs.

Wilson nodded and started for the door. Cuddy watched him go, hoping House would never find out about Wilson's part in all of this. If their relationship ever seriously deteriorated, she'd have one rampaging, utterly uncontrollable maverick on one hand and one very good doctor riddled with guilt and anger on the other. She couldn't afford to have two department heads go off the deep end at once, never mind two friends. But she was nearly powerless when it came to House; she'd have to trust Wilson to keep things together—_as always_. She shook her head. He shouldn't have to deal with all of House's crap single-handedly. And as usual, that was House's fault.

She shook her head again and forced herself to return to work. If anyone could get through to House, it was Wilson. She would just have to trust that his best efforts would yield at least some results.


	42. Helpless

**Title:** Intervention  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Rating:** Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.  
**Paring:** Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.  
**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.

Another short one. For some reason, the 2,000 or so words between this chapter and the last chapter (which is already written) are so difficult to find. Soon, I hope.

house addict – thanks for all those reviews. This fic isn't finished yet. I have a few other ones (click on my username). I didn't write "So Long and Thanks for All the…." That story is by Benj, who is awesome and should write more fic. I'm glad you've enjoyed this fic.

* * *

**Chapter 42: Helpless**

"Your liver hates you," Wilson announced, tossing House's labs on his stomach.

"Good afternoon to you too," House grumbled through gummy teeth, blinking at the angry white blur that was Wilson.

Wilson crossed his arms and tried to stand authoritatively at the foot of the bed. "I'd like to run some more tests to see if this is just transient toxicity or if you're doing real damage, but I don't expect you to let me, so your liver hates you."

He threw up his hands and slunk to the chair next to House. "There. I'm done. What's on TV?"

"Jeez, who crapped in your Cornflakes?" House sneered.

He grunted at the file and forced his heavy arm to nudge it open. Blinking the numbers into focus, he scanned the page.

"This is nothing," he mumbled.

Wilson snatched the remote. "It's too late for Soap Operas," he commented as he changed channels. "What's on at four?"

"Four is Gameboy time," House said, letting the file and his head fall back.

"Too bad you broke your finger," Wilson said without sympathy. "I'd like to take another look at it too but if it heals at an angle, that's not really my problem."

"This hand is the one that's really important," House said, turning his right hand over, then making wanking motions and leering at Wilson.

Wilson wasn't paying attention. "Dr. Phil. Julie reads his books." He turned up the volume and let his back thump against the chair. "Speak, enemy!"

"Aww, Jimmy…did you get into the good drugs?" House asked in a coddling voice, doing his best to cluck. "They're only for big boys with pain problems, but if it's just this once…"

House kept his head turned toward Wilson, waiting for a reaction of some kind—even the tiniest movement of his head—but he was not rewarded. Wilson was stolid.

_Fine. Be a bitch_.

House blearily rolled his eyes and examined the labs again. He knew his liver couldn't stand up to the bombardment of acetaminophen and alcohol; he'd be stupid to think otherwise, and since he wasn't stupid, he didn't think otherwise. The numbers were higher than he'd expected, but not by much. On the whole, this was not a surprise.

He tossed the file onto Wilson's lap, wondering what he wanted. Wilson didn't stick around when he was angry: he stomped off and sulked. And while House would normally enjoy toying with him in a situation like this, he was still tired, his leg was acting up, and he just wasn't in the mood.

Wilson merely laid the file aside, attention on the television. House's snarl went totally unnoticed.

"Even if you cured cancer this morning, you couldn't have gotten all that paperwork done," House snipped.

Wilson sat silently for a moment, chewing on his lip. "The transplant committee isn't going to give you another liver," he said to the television, his voice barely controlled.

"Well, you'll have to cure organ failure too," House said, eyes trying to close. "You should get on that—lots of different organs floating around. Just make sure you remember to rest on the seventh day. The NFL keeps us all in line."

Wilson grunted, chewing on his lip again. He wanted to so badly to yell at House for being the stupidest, most stubborn, prideful _jackass_ on the planet, but what would that accomplish? Exactly what it always accomplished: nothing. Helplessness wasn't a new feeling for Wilson, not in his specialty where the last stage meant that both patient and doctor were unable to do anything to stop the inevitable. But he cared regardless and when he got too close to a patient, he felt the pain and anger being helplessness. Though he was usually powerless to stop House or change his mind, House himself was rarely helpless. He often needed more help than he would ever acknowledge, but he was far from helpless. Except when he was helpless. Which was now. And he'd as soon acknowledge he needed help now as he would let Cameron hold doors open for him. Everything about the situation made Wilson's blood boil. But he was especially angry that he was helpless.

House watched Wilson rage with tired amusement. He knew he'd get to Wilson eventually whether he tried or not. That is, Wilson always got to himself eventually. House sensed the stomp and sulk coming. Disgust showed more and more on Wilson's face…and…any second now…

There.

Wilson let his left hand drop to his thigh with a twack.

"Just don't will me all your crap," he grumbled, standing suddenly and snatching House's file from the tray he'd put it on. He took long strides to the door. "I don't want it," he muttered.

And then he was gone.

House watched the door for a moment, then lay back. He hadn't even realized he'd been leaning forward. Wilson was more than annoyed, he realized. He could count on two fingers and a thumb the number of times he'd seen Wilson that angry. And he wasn't really angry: he was scared. It all went back to Wilson's habit of caring until his eyes bled. House resented that more than he would ever resent anger. Anger he could deal with. Wilson fearing for him just pissed him off.

And it wasn't that Wilson and Cuddy were right, he told himself, it was just that he still felt too much like crap to sit up and get dressed, never mind standing and walking. Leave it to Cuddy to taint his transfusion. Probably gave him Kool Aid, he mused, hand digging absently into the missing muscle.

Well, fine. Wilson could go sulk. House rolled on to his side, trying to find that comfortable position that allowed him to sleep deeply from time to time.

Dr. Phil brayed on the television. Wilson hadn't killed the volume, nor had he left the remote within reach, House realized. He shifted his left leg until his spine was aligned and his body leaned forward slightly. There. Quiet nerves, the right distribution of balance on hip, knee, and shoulder. Eyes closing again. Dr. Phil faded into the background. Sleep again, even if he didn't want it.

His liver was fine.


	43. Purgatory

Disclaimer, etc. in previous chapters.

Good news, folks! This fic is finally done! There are two more chapters after this one—already written and ready to go—and then that's it. Woohoo! The next chapter will be along next week with the epilogue to follow. I hope it's not a disappointing ending after such a long, long wait. I really don't know why it took a year and a half to do this, but I'm glad it's done. Thanks for your support over the long period of writing!

* * *

**Chapter 43: Purgatory**

Head in his hands, Wilson sighed for the umpteenth time over a half-eaten cup of yogurt. If House were here, he'd say that Wilson was doing a fair imitation of the innumerable Susies and Sallies he was known for comforting while they cried in their yogurt. And he'd polish off the cup before Wilson could properly protest.

House. Who'd bugged the nurses for a Vicodin two hours ago. Who'd complained loudly when he was told his doctors had to authorize it. Who would probably bite Wilson's head off about having to wait five minutes while he answered the page from the nurse's station. Who'd promptly gone back to sleep after he got it. Who was either still sleeping or not attempting to break out. (Or who hadn't been caught breaking out yet.) Who was a damn fool.

Wilson stirred the thick peach-flavored substance with a plastic spoon, feeling very much like a Susie or a Sally. If Susie or Sally had just screwed over a best friend in an attempt to help him get his life together. He wasn't sure if Susies or Sallies did that, but he knew he felt like they looked.

The yogurt cup skittered across the table and toppled over when he pushed too hard. Righting it, he tried reminding himself that the fact that he felt like an utter jackass meant he was a decent human being, but that line hadn't worked in days and he didn't expect it to now.

He felt like a parasite. He felt lower than a parasite. He felt like no amount of guilt-ridden suffering would ever exculpate him. The damage was done, after all. And even if he did subscribe to the eye-for-an-eye justice laid down by his ancestors, his suffering wasn't equal to House's suffering.

He wanted to march up to House's room and provoke House into punching him. But, he sighed again, trying to sink into the cafeteria floor, that would only make him feel worse because it would be a selfish attempt to make himself feel better. House wasn't up to punching anyone right now. That, he knew, was why he'd so eagerly fought his hook-up's ex on Friday. He'd been hoping that either punching that guy or getting punched by that guy would help, just like he'd been hoping cheap sex with a stranger while he was still married would replace guilt over what he'd done to House with guilt over what he'd done to Julie. But the fact was that he didn't care about her as much as he cared about House now. And she'd cheated first.

Of course, even as he went over the past week in his mind, trying to find some fitting punishment for himself, he knew that his penance was already laid out. He'd do what he always did: he'd suffer House. No one else could manage that.

If he didn't feel so much like dog food, he'd be amused by the thought. That he of all people would be the only friend of the amazing Dr. House. And he knew that if he really did want House to punch him (and never speak to him again), all he had to do was poke the exposed nerve that was House's deep-seated loneliness. Of course, he didn't want to hurt House: that was how all of this had gotten started. He'd been trying to _help_ House. As if that ever worked.

But friendship with House wasn't just some bizarre form of charity. He did actually enjoy spending time with House. More than he did spending time with anyone else most of the time. House needed him. He needed House. It was remarkably simple. And that was why he felt like jumping into traffic right now: when his relationship with House was this screwed up, everything in his life was screwed up.

Wilson stirred the yogurt listlessly. House would go home tomorrow and start destroying his liver again. Everything would go back to normal. Eventually, he and Julie would get a divorce. Something would probably happen to House. Maybe it would be good, maybe not. He tried to convince himself that he'd done his best to help House, but he didn't always believe it. And he didn't know what else he could do. Even now…

"Dr. Wilson?"

Startled, Wilson glanced up. Cameron was looking at him with concern and confusion. He straightened up, collecting himself.

"What's up?" he asked.

Cameron cocked her head. "Nothing, I—do you mind if I sit down?"

Wilson gestured toward the chair opposite him and fidgeted with the yogurt while she sat down.

"How's Dr. House?" she asked with levity she didn't feel.

Wilson sighed lightly. "He's still pretty sick," Wilson said matter-of-factly. "But he'll be okay."

Cameron took the news with a nod. Wilson realized she didn't come here to talk about House.

She took a moment before speaking again, her gaze fixed on the table top. Finally, she looked up at him.

"I haven't been here that long and," she broke into a wry grin, eyes on the table, "I've never met anyone remotely like Dr. House, but," she sobered, looking again at Wilson. She stopped, trying to find the right words. "I don't know what kind of relationship he and Dr. Cuddy have, but…I'm having trouble believing she'd really let him work while he was…" She didn't need to finish the sentence.

Wilson watched her pause for words again. She was leading up to a question about Cuddy's competence. He felt even more like sinking into the floor.

"Last week, I blamed him for risking someone's life over a bet," she continued. "And I guess it doesn't matter now—the patient is fine—without him, we would have treated the patient for the wrong disease and he would have died—but…shouldn't she have—"

"It was my idea," Wilson interrupted, thumbs moving up and down the yogurt cup. He couldn't meet her eyes. "The whole thing. And she did want to take him off the case. I told her I'd keep an eye on him."

He felt rather than saw her struggling with this new information.

"It was a bad idea," he said. "I wish I'd never thought of it."

They sat together for what felt like an eternity to Wilson. House was always complaining about Cameron's propensity for moral outrage. _So she's human_, Wilson usually commented, implying, of course, that House wasn't. He didn't know how House stood the intense glare of the light of moral truth, especially coming from Cameron. He felt about half an inch tall under her scrutiny.

When someone finally did break the silence, it was, not surprisingly since Wilson was incapable of speech, Cameron. She said the one word that Wilson had been wrestling with all week.

"Why?"

Wilson brushed a nail over the peach on the yogurt label. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he said lamely.

"Why didn't you stop him?" she asked.

Wilson sniffed to himself. "He's even more stubborn about bets than he is about getting what he wants for his patients." He slowly rotated the cup, unaware that he was picking up House's habit of fidgeting. "Even if Cuddy had called it off and given him the clinic hours, he still would have gone through with it."

_That's just who he is_, he added to himself. _A stupid, stubborn, callous junkie…who really does need the drugs he takes_.

"But," Cameron sputtered, "he broke his hand—"

Wilson glanced up at her and she cut herself off. His expression told her everything she needed to know: _yes, he did; and he'd do it again; he's that stubborn. And I can't even begin to tell you how rotten it makes me feel_.

She deferred to his years of experience, though she wasn't sure if this made Wilson an extremely conscientious friend or a miserable bastard like House. Who would do that to a friend? But Wilson didn't strike her as a miserable bastard, so she went with an extremely conscientious friend. All the same, Wilson's actions spoke to the strange nature of his relationship with House. Suddenly she realized something and her head snapped up.

"He doesn't know, does he."

Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the yogurt cup. "I hope not."

Cameron could only nod faintly.

"Well…" she began tentatively, still taking the new information in, "did it accomplish anything?"

Wilson sighed. "Maybe," he said. He glanced at the wall. "Not really."

She trained an optimistic gaze on him. "At least you tried."

_That's not enough_, Wilson snarled to himself. He glanced up quickly at Cameron, then back down. "Yeah."

Cameron wanted to ask when House was coming back to work, but she thought better of it. Instead, she pushed the chair back and stood.

"Well…I'll see you around," she said as lightly as she could.

Wilson nodded once to the cup, supposing it was all for the best. House's lackeys should probably know what a miserable friend he made for their grumpy boss.

Cameron. Cameron was nice. Too nice, but he liked too nice. Sometimes. For a moment, he felt better for having told someone other than Cuddy that this was his fault—then he remembered to feel guilty for feeling better and he felt worse.

After a while, he began to feel nothing.

He stirred the yogurt for another five minutes before getting up and slinking back to his office. He should try to get _some_ work done this afternoon. With his luck today, he'd probably lose a long-time patient or half of the night shift would call in sick or he'd slip in a pool of urine and break an arm. In a way, any of those things would make him feel better. Then he felt guilty again for thinking that and took a stack of charts that needed review, hoping to put all feeling out of himself, just for a little while. He felt guilty about that too, and angry with himself for feeling so guilty when it was really House's—

Snorting a frustrated sigh through his nostrils, he bent over the first chart and concentrated hard on deciphering Brown's messy scrawl.

Half-way through his tenth chart, he had a wonderful idea. It was so wonderful he even smiled about it. It was magnificent. A stroke of pure genius. He began making plans in the back of his mind and found himself too preoccupied by this new idea to do much more than finish the chart he'd already started.

He felt so much better that he didn't even mind the fact that he was going home to a sister-in-law tonight. Even if House found out that the bet had been his idea, this was going to make up for it tenfold. The weight on his chest loosened considerably.

House was still asleep when he stopped by the nurse's station on his way out. He'd left an order for new labs at four and was pleased to see rate at which House was improving. After conferring with Cuddy, he left an order for a strong sedative should House attempt a breakout at 3 a.m. and caught himself whistling—actually _whistling_—on the way to his car.


	44. Metanoia

Disclaimer, etc. in previous chapters.

Wow. I guess this is really the end. (Except for the epilogue, which will be along next week.) Thanks to each one of you who's taken the time to read this fic all the way through. I really appreciate your taking that time. I hope this ending works for you. Please let me know either way. Thanks for the long, wonderful ride!

* * *

**Chapter 44: Metanoia **

The next morning, Wilson was so late that he missed grand rounds. Collecting everything he needed to implement his idea had been a little more difficult than he'd anticipated, but he had it more or less done. He expected that all systems would be go by late afternoon—not too long after House checked out.

Cuddy had told him yesterday evening that it was okay if he was late today, but when he saw her as he came in, she looked more than a little miffed.

Wilson winced at her account of the trouble House had caused the night shift—including a phone call to her he'd made from his room at 2 a.m.—but she'd been able to successfully hold his mischief over his head and bump his check-out time to 3 o'clock, provided he kept breakfast and lunch down. He'd moped and whined but had fallen asleep after his post-breakfast Vicodin and she swore that she could get through the day if he just gave her one more hour of quiet.

Wilson made the appropriate gestures and noises as she narrated the events, told her he'd tell her about it later when she asked what he had planned for House, and slipped into his office to work a little before lunch. He called the nurse's station on House's floor and asked to be paged when his inmate was fed. Then, with a nearly guilt-free mind, he worked hard, hoping to make a dent in all the work he was behind on before his pager went off.

* * *

Two hours and a trip to the news stand later, Wilson was leaning against the wall in House's room, watching his friend make ugly faces at the tray in front of him.

"You know, you're lucky you didn't bleed out at home or pass out on your way here and asphyxiate," Wilson said.

House said nothing, poking at pile of unseasoned potatoes instead. He was hungry, but he wasn't _that _hungry.

"The sooner you eat that, the sooner you go home," Wilson cajoled, half of his attention on the noon soap opera to take some of the pressure off of House.

"Got any hot sauce?" House asked, bored with the situation, the food, the room, everything.

"One week," Wilson said with a sideways glance at him. "Just one week of watching what you eat and then you can start working on another ulcer."

"And I starve between now and then?" House whined. "Life is too short for flavorless food."

"He says as he adds to his collection of scars," Wilson announced. "Is pain your new fetish?"

"Wouldn't that be convenient?" House said. "The symmetry would be absolutely breathtaking." He waited a beat. "Except that you're wrong."

"That's right," Wilson said scratching his chin contemplatively, "it's pain _meds_ you like. So easy to mix the two up."

House gave him the 'shut up' death glare.

Wilson rolled his eyes, leaned back again, and started fidgeting. _Just do it,_ he told himself.

"You know," he said, "about that bet…between you and Cuddy…" He trailed off anxiously, feeling acid build up in his stomach.

"The one that you set up?" House said, poking at his food again. "Or are we not talking about last week?" He looked up innocently at Wilson.

Wilson had the decency to look surprised.

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on," he said dismissively. "It was obvious."

Wilson sniffed. "I'm not surprised you knew," he said, feeling the acid recede now. "I'm surprised that you let me know you knew without making me suffer for it first. You're like a cat with an insect."

"Can our metaphors be a little less referential for the next year or so?" House said, stirring the food with disgust. "I've had my fill of cats. How's your dog, by the way?"

"Still a dog," Wilson said, "no matter how many times you ask me."

"I can't ask about the family?" House said.

"Only the humans," Wilson said.

"You don't care about the humans," House rejoined.

"I do care about the humans," Wilson said. "I'm just not very good with them—her."

"I don't think single guys with dogs have trouble getting laid," House advised.

"You're saying I should get a divorce?" Wilson said.

"I'm saying you're not using your canine friend as effectively as you could be," House answered.

"It's always about using someone, isn't it?" Wilson said with a tinge of disgust.

"You're the one who's good at it," House said with a shrug. "I just piss people off."

"And then use them as you see fit," Wilson added.

"But mostly I just piss them off," House clarified.

"So it doesn't count if they don't know they've been used?" Wilson asked.

"Of course it counts," House said. "I'm not laboring for nought."

"And the payoff is all that great sleep you get at night," Wilson said.

"Now you're just being mean," House said. He poked at the potatoes again. "I will give you a hundred dollars to get me a Reuben," he said.

"Nope," Wilson said.

"Two hundred," House said.

"Not happening," Wilson said.

"Just the meat, cheese, and bread," House said.

"Don't think so," Wilson said.

"_This _is how you atone?" House complained. "You didn't learn much in Jew school, did you."

"You're a poor negotiator," Wilson said.

"I'm _starving_," House said dramatically.

"You're fine," Wilson said dismissively.

"My body is burning muscle for food now," House whined.

"Keep it up and I'll add a day to your stay just to make sure you don't sneak something that isn't on the kosher list," Wilson threatened.

"If _only_ I could have something from the kosher list…" House said longingly.

"You know which list I mean," Wilson said.

"And Cuddy calls _me_ the Nazi," House sniffed.

"House, there's a line," Wilson said.

"The line disappears when you deprive a man of food," House said. "History bears this out."

"You have plenty of food," Wilson said. He stepped forward and dipped his pinky in the potatoes. "Not too bad," he said.

"Needs salt," House grumbled. "And hot sauce."

Wilson didn't say anything as he retreated to the wall. House was right.

House started glaring at his food again.

"When did you know?" Wilson asked.

"About five minutes after I gave Cuddy my meds," House said, not looking up from the potatoes.

"It didn't seem like something she'd do?" Wilson asked.

"She's not that impulsive," House answered.

Wilson paused. "When did you _really _know?" he asked.

House didn't hesitate. "After the kid went to the ICU and she didn't corner me and force one down my throat," he said. "She cares about the hospital and its patients more than she cares about me or her pride." He paused. "It was especially obvious after this," he said holding his left hand up with a wry smile.

"I guess it was," Wilson said, rubbing his neck and looking away.

They were silent for a moment.

"You cracked early," House said. "I thought it would take at least another week."

"The possibility of you dying brings it out in me, I guess," Wilson said with a shrug. "I'm weak, what can I say?"

"I _was_ looking forward to watching you squirm," House said.

"Sadist," Wilson muttered.

"Why, thank you," House said.

They were silent again, House sneering at his food, Wilson fidgeting against the wall.

After a while, Wilson nodded at House's plate. "You like it here that much?" he said.

"This is not food," House declared.

"You eat it and it goes through with no problems, you go home in a few hours," Wilson said. "You don't eat it, or you eat something else and it makes you sick, you go home tomorrow morning if you're lucky."

"Spoil sport," House muttered and forked the potatoes. "This is really gross," he said around a mouthful.

Wilson shrugged and dipped another pinky-full. He made a face, but he also made sure House saw him swallow it.

"Yeah," he said. "Not as bad as the stroganoff, though."

House nodded sideways in agreement and stuffed more into his mouth.

"Tell you what," Wilson said, leaning against the wall again, "I'll get you something good for dinner."

House stopped chewing. "You know, this inviting yourself over all the time thing—"

"Something really good," Wilson interrupted.

House eyed him suspiciously.

Wilson shrugged off the scrutiny. "I did pay attention in Jew school as it turns out."

House examined him top to bottom and found that Wilson wanted this. But he didn't find out what it was. He determined quickly that satisfying his curiosity ranked above making Wilson suffer—as it usually did. Besides, he'd already assigned Wilson punishment for masterminding the bet. Wilson was getting off easy, but House figured Wilson had suffered plenty last week while the consequences of his decision played out in front of him, and anyway, it was much more fun to torment Cuddy than Wilson. Wilson was so much better at tormenting himself.

House loaded more potatoes on his fork. "I didn't want to have to call a taxi anyway," he said.

Wilson smiled slightly—not too much to give away how relieved he felt—and tossed House the new issue of _People_ he'd been concealing in his lab coat.

"Finish your food, be good for another hour and a half, and I'll spring you," he said.

"Hospital food is more likely than people food to cause indigestion," House pointed out.

Wilson gave him a pointed look and House relented with another sneer at his half-finished lunch.

Wilson found himself whistling again as he headed for the cafeteria to get his own lunch. He was so light-hearted, he practically skipped down the corridor.

* * *

A few hours later, he led a mumbling, grumbling House past the clinic and a cross-armed but relieved Cuddy to his car.

"So, if I got a month off clinic duty from her, what do I get from you?" House asked as he buckled his seatbelt.

Wilson just shrugged and turned the key in the ignition. _You'll find out soon enough_, his body language said.

House mumbled and grumbled some more, but he sat back docilely and in his heart, he was happy to be in this familiar car with this familiar friend, going home to an admittedly empty house, but not going home alone.

Wilson nosed the car toward House's apartment, switched the stereo to an expansive Led Zeppelin song, and for a moment at least, all was right with the world.

THE END

(except for the epilogue)


	45. Wilson's Magic Bag

Disclaimer, etc. in previous chapters.

At last, the end. I want to thank everyone who's read this beast, and specifically Taru of House Transcripts and More, which is where this fic got its start, and the folks on the message board there who encouraged me to keep this fic up; Auditrix, who provided invaluable assistance throughout the writing process as consultant, beta, and idea ball-tosser; Benj, for being so enthusiastic and awesome; The Lilac Elf, also for being so enthusiastic and awesome; Namaste, for the crit; and everyone else who's reviewed. Thank you. I hope this doesn't disappoint.

Quick note. I'm going through and editing each chapter now, making cosmetic touches and sometimes adding something a little more substantial so that the final version will be consistent and (hopefully) typo-free.

Also, small **spoiler warning** for season 2 in general, though what's here is very general and vague.

Finally, a standard **CONTENT WARNING** for this epilogue. It contains illegal drug use and should be considered T+ or a light M in terms of rating. I know this sounds strange since the whole fic is full of drugs, but in this case, it's a drug that's illegal in many countries. So, please don't take this as encouragement to break your country's laws and all that. (Btw, I wrote most of this epilogue in December, before the episode where we see Wilson rolling a joint had aired, but darn those writers if they didn't scoop me on this one.)

* * *

**Epilogue: Wilson's Magic Bag**

House sunk deeper into the middle couch cushion, fairly content with his feet up on the coffee table, a monster truck rally on television, and applesauce dribbling steadily down his chin. As he wiped it away, he felt the long, stiff blades of hair on his chin and deemed himself shaggy. Applesauce was tricky to clean out of excess beard growth—he'd need an actual shave. Too bad. He hated the merciless bite of the razor as much as he hated looking neat, but he knew he'd have as much time as he wanted to grow it out again.

Yep, plenty of time. He grumbled to himself, but he was really thankful that his self-appointed keepers were there for him when he really needed them. Not that he realized this consciously—oh, no—or fully understood why he wasn't angry with either of them and never really had been.

He would learn later, slowly, over the months to come that he _was_ taking more Vicodin than he should be, that his pain was getting worse, that something was happening to him to make it worse—and that something had to happen to stop or at least slow the progression of pain or he wouldn't be able to function on Vicodin alone any longer. And somewhere deep within himself, he knew what he could do to begin fixing it, but since he no longer believed that anything truly important could ever be fixed, he had chosen to bury his knowledge so completely that he could no longer access it. Right now he knew none of this. He felt only a vague sense that something might not be right, and that sense was easily dismissed, so he blissfully licked the applesauce out of the spoon, separating the clumps of apple from the sauce with his tongue, enjoying the sight of Truckzilla crushing Monstersaurus.

His memory clicked and he recalled the huge monster truck show he'd read about in Princeton General's E.R. waiting room. He'd have to look in to that. However naughty Wilson had been of late, he didn't deserve to be deprived of such monster truck glory. House dipped the spoon into the applesauce and licked it again. Yes. He could score great seats with his connections. As soon as he was back on his feet…

He finished the applesauce and stretched his torso with a happy groan after depositing the empty container on the coffee table. Wilson had been quiet on the way home. No badgering, except for a new bottle of Benadryl with two refills that shared a bag with his Vicodin and the three drugs for his ulcer. As a sign of appreciation for Wilson's tact, House had taken one after Wilson left and promptly dozed off. Then a Vicodin when he woke up, a much-needed shower, and two cups of applesauce from a hastily-assembled care package of edible hospital food stuffs (the prepackaged kind that the cafeteria staff never touched). Monster trucks on TV, a full and happy belly, still a little sleepy, and not in any significant pain, he felt like a new man. Life might just be livable now.

The crowd roared as Truckzilla crunched a line of old cars as part of its victory lap, and House sank further down and closed his eyes.

Later, a knock startled House out of his doze. House let out a knowing sigh, rolled his eyes, and picked himself up off the couch.

"Did your house burn down or something?" he said as he opened the door. He couldn't resist a chance to nettle Wilson, even when he was expecting him.

Wilson gave him a dirty look and shouldered past him, laden with plastic bags.

"What?" House said defensively. "I'm gonna have to start charging you rent."

Wilson was putting down the bags on the coffee table. "C'mon," he said. "I always bring goodies." He held up a bag of Cheetos.

House limped back to the couch. "Normally your goodies and my goodies aren't the same thing, but I like what I see."

Wilson smirked slyly and produced another item.

House groaned as Wilson produced more of the same item. And more. And more.

"Ensure?" House griped. "I'm not _that_ old."

Wilson merely smirked again and piled more on the table.

"You know you're not supposed to insult your elders, don't you, you young whippersnapper?" House waved his cane threateningly, balancing himself with a hand on the back of the couch.

"You can mix it with something and pretend it's an $8 girlie drink," Wilson said. He piled even more on the table.

House's eyes widened. "How many of those did you get?" he asked incredulously.

"There are two more cases in the car," Wilson said.

He tossed House the Cheetos and sat down on the couch while House watched him.

"But the real treat," Wilson said reaching into his pocket, "is this."

He produced a tattered paper bag. House sniffed the air.

"Smells like Otto's jacket," he quipped.

Wilson grinned. "Promise you won't tell," he said.

"I get so turned on when you break the law for me, Jimmy," House mocked.

Wilson shrugged. "It has been a while," he said, emptying the bag on the table.

House's eyes practically leapt out of their sockets. "How much did you _spend_?" he asked.

"Manners, House," Wilson cautioned.

House stared at him with persistent, demanding disbelief until he cracked.

Wilson rolled his eyes at House's need to know everything.

"Kid down the street," he said. "I caught him smoking—accidentally—I wasn't looking for him…" He let House put the rest together.

"And you didn't narc," House said proudly, patting Wilson's back as if he were a younger brother. "You're learning."

Wilson shrugged. "For all I know, this is cut with oregano, rosemary, cilantro—who knows. He rolled it for me."

"Nice kid," House muttered. He ran one of the joints under his nose as if smelling a cigar. "Smells like the genuine article to me," he said. He sniffed again. "Product of Vancouver."

Wilson produced a packet of incense and House snorted.

"Did you bring a lava lamp and a Pink Floyd record too?"

"I've got the giant pig in my car," Wilson replied. "You've got a pump, right? 'Cause all those inflatable women don't just blow themselves up."

House eyed him meaningfully. "You would know," he said.

Wilson sniffed, then gestured to the twenty odd cans of chocolate Ensure and three bags of Cheetos on the table.

"Do you see my plan?"

"I drink the Cheetos, smoke the Ensure, and eat the pot?" House asked with a furrowed brow. He snatched one of the bags of Cheetos and ripped it open.

Wilson rolled his eyes at House, playing their game as always.

"I've got five more bags of sandwiches, soups—that sort of thing—a big pan of lasagna from Julie, and lots of munchies." He sat back and gestured to everything on the table. "You've got a week to consume all of it."

"I don't know," House said skeptically with Cheeto flakes in his beard already and bright orange fingers, "that's a _lot_ of weed. I'd need a ton of munchies to manage."

"Well," Wilson said with uncontainable smugness as he picked up one of the Ensure cans and shook it, "this is your only chocolate fix. You've _got_ to have your chocolate fix."

"You bastard," House said, throwing a handful of Cheetos at Wilson, "you've learned _too _well."

Wilson collected the thrown chips, popping them into his mouth, and made another sly face.

"It's not like you've got to do it all by yourself," he said, picking up one of the joints and rolling it between his fingers.

House scrutinized him for a moment. Then his lip curled into a pleased, if grudging, half-smile.

"Lock the door," he instructed, and limped caneless to the stereo.

By the time Wilson had returned to the couch and moved the food out of the way, House had licked his fingers clean and cued up _Dark Side of the Moon_, filling the remaining cd trays with everything else Pink Floyd.

House joined him on the couch, muted the monster trucks, and passed a joint under his nose again with an appreciative sniff. He popped a can of Ensure and opened another bag of Cheetos. Wilson opened a can too and they toasted the marijuana.

House licked the end of the joint and glanced sideways at Wilson with a devious expression.

"Got a light?"

THE END


End file.
